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OF   THE 

U  N  IVLRSITY 

Of    ILLINOIS 


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f3 


IN      MAREMM A 
I. 


NEW    NOVELS    AT    EVERY    LIBRARY. 


FOR  CASH  ONLY.     By  James  Payn.    3  vols. 

Crown  8vo. 

THE  MARTYRDOM  OF   MADELINE.     By 

Robert  Buchanan.    3  vols.     Crown  8vo.  i_ 

THE  COMET  OF  A  SEASON.     By  Justin 
McCarthy.    3  vols.     Crown  8vo. 

A     HEART'S     PROBLEM.       By    Charles 

Gibbon.     2  vols.     Crown  Bvo. 

THE   BRIDE'S   PASS.     By  Sarah  Tytler. 

2  vols.     Crown  Bvo. 

CHATTO  &  WINDUS,  Piccadilly,  W. 


IN     MAREMMA 


Jl  gforp 


By     OUIDA 


•amor    CH'    a    NULLO    AMATO    AMAR    PERDONA' 


IN   THREE   VOLUMES 
VOL.  I. 

CHATTO   &   WINDUS,    PICCADILLY 

1882 


[All   rights    reserved^ 


LONDON  :     PRINTED    BY 

SPOTTISWOODE    AND     CO.,     NEW-STREET     SQUARE 

AND     PARLIAMENT     STREET 


(^ 

^ 

1 


& 


^ 


'v.l 


OP 

THOSE    HOSPITABLE    DOORS 

WHICH 

THE      ETBUSCAN      LION      GUARDS 

•  OF    AN    ETRUSCAN    TOMB 

"4  TO 

T 


MY      DEAR      FRIENDS 

THE    STORYS 


^^3^ 


NOTE. 

9 

It  is  needless  to  recall  to  the  scholar,  but 
it  may  be  as  well  to  tell  the  general  reader, 
that  the  '  golden  warrior '  stretched  on  a 
couch  of  rock,  who  vanished  as  the  air 
entered  the  long-closed  tomb,  was  thus 
found  by  Avvolta  in  the  famous  tumuli  of 
the  Montarozzi  opened  in  the  year  1823. 


IN    MAREMMA. 


CHAPTER   I. 


[HEPiE  was  a  very  busy  crowd 
gathered  in  the  cathedral  square 
of  garden-gu'dled  Grosseto. 
It  was  the  end  of  October,  and 
the  town  and  all  the  country  round  it  were 
awakening  from  the  summer  desolation  and 
sickness  that  reif:^n  throuc^hout  Maremma  from 
springtime  till  autumn,  whilst  all  the  land  is 
sunburnt  and  storm-harassed  and  fever- 
stricken,  and  no  human  beings  are  left  in  it, 
save  the  tired  sentinels  at  their  posts  along 
the  shore,  and  a  few  villagers  too  poor  to 
get  away,  sickening  amidst  the  salt  and  the 
seaweed. 

VOL.  I.  B 


IN  MAREMMA. 


With  late  October  the  forests  begin  to 
glov/  with  a  golden  tinge  or  a  scarlet  flush, 
the  fever  abates  and  slackens  its  hold,  the 
ague-trembling  limbs  grow  stronger,  the 
north  winds  come,  and  the  swamps  are 
healthy  with  the  smell  of  the  sea  or  the  scent 
of  the  woods  ;  the  land  that  has  been  baked 
and  cracked  till  it  looks  like  dried  lava, 
or  has  been  soaked  by  torrential  rains  till  it 
is  one  vast  smoking  morass,  becomes  ready 
for  cultivation. 

Then  the  real  life  of  Maremma  be- 
gins ;  down  from  the  mountains  of  the 
Lucchese  and  Pistoiese  districts  labourers 
troop  by  the  thousand ;  shepherds  come 
from  the  hills  with  long  lines  of  flocks ; 
herds  of  horses  and  cattle  go  daily  by  the 
roads  ;  hunters  chase  the  boar  and  buck, 
and  charcoal  burners  and  ploughmen  pour 
themselves  in  busy  legions  over  the  plains  and 
the  woods. 

The  country  is  then  full  of  the  men  come 
from  the  liills,  from  far  and  near,  '  il  mon- 
tanino  con  scaiye  grosse  e  cervello  jine^  whom 
the  Maremmano  employs,  envies,  and  de- 
tests; brown,  erect,  healthy,  smiling,  stal- 
wart; looking,  beside  the  pale,  swollen, 
ague- shaken  creatures,  who  live  here  all  the 


IK  MAitEMMA. 


year  througli,  like  life  beside  death.  They 
are  all  niountain-borii,  and  chiefly  from 
the  chestnut-woods  of  the  northern  spurs  of 
the  Apennines,  Avhere  the  snow  has  fallen 
already  ;  here,  down'  in  the  green  Ma- 
remma,  they  will,  year  after  year,  arrive 
all  their  lives  through,  to  plough,  and 
harrow,  and  sow,  to  hew,  and  saw,  and 
burn  wood  for  timber  and  charcoal,  all  the 
winter  long  ;  and  then,  after  waiting  perhaps 
for  the  first  hay  stacking  or  wheat  harvest, 
will  go  back  with  the  money  in  their 
pockets  to  reap  and  plough,  and  gather 
the  nuts,  and  prune  the  olive  on  their  own 
hills;  a  half  nomadic,  half  home  life  that 
is  rough  and  healthy,  cliangeful  and  plea- 
sant, and  makes  them  half  vagrant  and  lialf 
husbandman ;  bitter  foes  and  hot  lovers ; 
faitliless  ones,  too ;  for  when  the  Maremma 
girl  sings  of  lier  lover,  he  is  always  some 
Pistoiese  or  Lucchese  Ja??i(?  from  the  Apen- 
nines, and  the  burden  of  her  song  is  always 
one  of  absence,  of  doubt,  and  of  incon- 
stancy. 

When  he  goes  away  with  the  ricli  loads 
of  summer-grass  or  grain,  he  goes  to  his 
own  hamlet  up  higli  in  the  chestnut  foj-ests 
of  a   healthier  land,  and  it    is    seldom  in- 

B   2 


IN  MAREMMA. 


deed  that  he  will  cast  any  backward  look  of 
regret  to  misty  Maremma  steaming  beneath 
its  torrid  suns.  And  when  he  comes  back 
another  year  there, — then  he  finds  some  one 
else. 

This  day  in  Grosseto  there  w^ere  many 
hundreds  of  these  come  here  for  the  hiring 
by  owners  and  stewards  of  this  perilous  yet 
fruitful  Maremmano  soil ;  the  same  men  came 
for  the  most  part  year  after  year,  and  were 
well  known  ;  the  market  day  was  the  day  to 
find  masters  and  make  terms  for  their  wdnter 
labours ;  and  from  here  they  would  all 
scatter  themselves  far  and  wide,  north  and 
south,  east  and  west,  on  their  several  roads  ; 
some  to  the  swamps  and  the  thickets ;  some 
to  the  pine  and  oak  woods ;  some  to  the 
gea-shore  towns  for  the  industries  of  the 
coast ;  some  to  the  vast  wdieat  and  oat 
fields  that  stretch  level  and  dreary  as  moor- 
land, and  bring  forth  the  finest  grain  in  all 
Italy. 

There  were  o;at]iered  toc^ether  hundreds 
and  even  thousands  of  them  ;  but  this  morn- 
ing they  had  other  thoughts  besides  those 
of  their  hire  and  wages  ;  they  were 
standing  under  the  broad,  blue  autumnal 
sky,  patient,  and  yet   eager  to  see  a  great 


IN  MAEEMMA. 


sight  :  no  less  a  sight  than  the  passing 
through  Grosseto  of  the  brigand-chief  of 
Santa-Fiora — Saturnino  Mastarna. 

The  news  of  his  capture  had  startled 
the  town  at  miduii«;ht  when  the  carabiniers 
had  ridden  in,  thirty  strong,  with  a  man 
bound  hard  and  fast  in  the  midst  of  them ; 
and  the  Grosseto  citizens,  for  the  most  part 
in  their  beds,  had  lit  their  lanterns  hurriedly, 
and  thrown  open  their  casements  as  the 
tramp  of  the  horses  and  the  clatter  of  the 
weapons  had  awakened  them  from  sleep. 

'  They  have  captured  some  poor  soul ! ' 
the  good  folks  had  said  with  a  sigh  of  sym- 
pathy and  regret,  and  had  murmured  to  each 
other  mournfully,  '  e  il  nostra  Saturnino ! ' 

As  the  troop  of  guards  had  passed  under 
the  Avails  of  their  dull  little  city,  a  torch 
here  and  there  flickering  on  their  naked 
sabres  and  the  barrels  of  their  short  carbines, 
and  a  moonbeam  here  and  there  glistening 
on  the  whiteness  of  their  cross-belts  and  the 
foam  on  the  manes  of  their  horses,  there  had 
been  few  in  Grosseto  who  did  not  pity  the 
captive  in  their  midst,  with  his  arms  tied 
tightly  by  cords  behind  his  back  ;  few  who 
did  not  for  his  sake  wish  the  troopers  a 
sudden  death  and  a  bad  one, 


IN  MAREMMA. 


When  the  trot  of  the  charijers  and  the 
dash  of  the  steel  had  passed  into  silence, 
and  the  town  had  lapsed  into  its  wonted 
quietude,  the  burs^hers  of  Grosseto  puttiug 
out  their  lanterns  had  sighed  :  '  Quel  povero 
Satuimino^  Aie  I  Che  jjeccato  ! '  For  Ma- 
remma  had  alwaj^s  adored  her  Satur- 
nino,  and  it  regretted  his  capture  very 
greatly ;  he  had  never  done  any  harm,  he 
had  only  robbed  the  rich,  and  killed  a 
foreigner  now  and  then ;  he  had  been  a  holy 
man,  and  the  priests  had  always  been  the 
better  for  anything  he  had  done ;  and  he 
had  been  so  precious  as  a  theme  for  talk  in 
the  long  dreary  ^vinter  nights,  in  the  still 
longer,  still  drearier,  summer  days. 

Without  Saturnino  Mastarna,  the  Ma- 
remma  would  be   more  than  ever  desolate. 

The  province  had  always  been  full  of 
sympathy  with  its  great  robber,  whose 
popular  boast  it  was  that  he  never  had 
wronged  any  poor  man.  All  the  creatures 
of  the  law,  soldiers,  guards,  coastguards, 
and  carabiniers,  were  hated  and  shunned 
throughout  the  province ;  got  help  from 
none,  and  were,  again  and  again,  baffled 
and  laughed  at  by  the  shrewd  finesse  of  the 
people  in  the  "woods,  and  on  the  shores.  To 


IM  MAREMMA. 


cheat  a  shirro  was  a  loyal  task  that  brought 
praise  and  honour  to  whosoever  had  accom- 
plished it. 

Therefore  for  years  the  seizing  of  Satur- 
nino  had  been  impossible,  and  scai"'cely  even 
desired  by  the  authorities,  so  great  an  un- 
popularity was  his  capture  certain  to  pro- 
duce. 

But  at  the  last  the  brio^and  had  cjrown 
too  audacious :  he  had  seized  foreigners  of 
note,  and  foreign  governments  had  bestirred 
themselves,  and  it  had  been  thought  needful 
to  show  some  vigour  and  vigilance  against  a 
mocker  of  the  law  who  would  stride  about 
in  the  towns  of  the  Maremma  in  festal 
bravery,  secure  of  immunity,  and.  boasting 
that  no  ruler  of  them  all  would  dare  to  touch 
him.  Troops  had  been  put  in  motion  ;  mu- 
nicipalities arraigned  by  ministers,  and  at 
last  it  was  felt  that  the  great  days  of  Satur- 
nino  Mastarna  must  be  numbered. 

The  Government  had  been  told  by  foreign 
nations  that  it  behoved  its  own  honour  not 
to  leave  him  at  large  any  longer.  So  strenu- 
ous efforts  had  been  made  all  summer 
through,  and  the  hill  sides  had  swarmed  with 
scouts  and  sharpshooters,  and  at  last  on  one 
misty  October  night,  tlie  State  had  been  one 


IN  MAREMMA. 


too  many  for  its  wary  and  ferocious  son,  and 
Saturnino,  asleep  and  heavy  witli  wine,  had 
been  surprised,  and  after  bitter  and  murder- 
ous resistance  been  vanquished,  and  dragged 
from  where  he  dwelt  amongst  the  clouds  of 
the  mountain's  top,  where  Monte  Labbro 
reared  its  silver  summit  to  the  whiteness  of 
the  moon. 

All  men  of  the  Maremma  had  been  proud 
that  their  province  boasted  so  dread  a  name 
as  Saturnino's  :  a  name  sweeping  clear,  like 
a  scythe,  all  the  country  side  of  travellers, 
and  resounding  even  down  to  the  very  walls 
of  Eome. 

That  terrible  shape  and  rumour  up 
there  in  the  mountain-labyrinths  above  the 
stormy  Flora  water  had  lent  mystery  and 
majesty  to  the  land  ;  had  hung  a  dread  tale 
to  every  wayside  bush  along  the  lone  sea- 
roads  and  haunted  every  thicket  of  mastic 
and  laurel  that  grew  above  the  old  ways  of 
Porsenna's  kingdoms.  They  had  been  proud 
of  Saturnino,  the  great  Saturnino,  at  the 
lifting  of  whose  voice  all  the  wet  grass  upon 
a  summer's  nigh!:  would  grow  suddenly  alive 
with  gleaming  eyes,  and  flashing  firelocks, 
as  though  he  called  men  up  from  the  very 
stones  to  do  his  bidding, 


IN  MAREMMA.  9 


All  men  in  Grosseto  this  autumn  day 
were  talking  of  that  one  theme  :  Saturnino 
of  Santa  Fiora — il  gran'  Saturnino  ! 

So  they  murmured  with  one  accord, 
leaving  business,  and  bargains,  to  crowd  to- 
gether and  tell  the  tale  over  a  thousand  times 
and  in  a  thousand  different  ways,  and.  agree 
amongst  each  other,  cordially  and  with  many 
an  oath,  that  to  have  captured  Saturnino  and 
slung  him  across  a  horse's  back,  with  heels 
tied  together  like  any  sheep's,  was  a  sin  and 
shame  in  the  executive. 

For  Saturnino  had  been  their  hero,  loom- 
in «:  as  laro'e  as  «^ods  loom  in  the  mist  of 
myths.  '  He  was  a  man  ! '  they  muttered  one 
to  another  :  and  then  the  natives  of  the  little 
city  seized  the  strangers  who  came  down  for 
the  first  time  from  the  Lucchese  hills,  and  told 
them  wondrous  tales  in  passionate  high- 
vibrating  voices,  and  cried  a  hundred  times  : 

'  Do  your  mountains  breed  the  like  ? 
Nay,  not  they.  There  is  but  one  Saturnino. 
Never  would  he  hurt  the  poor.  Nay,  not  a 
poor  soul  in  the  land  but  had  him  for  a 
friend.  And  a  dutiful  man  too  has  he  always 
been.  When  he  came  down  into  the  towns, 
straightway  would  he  go  to  the  church  and 
be  shriven,  and  to  the  Madonna  lie  would 


10  IN  MAREMMA. 

send  always  half  the  jewels  that  he  might 
light  upon  :  a  good  man  and  a  great !  And 
now,  see  you,  oh  the  pity  of  it !  They  have 
trapped  him  and  taken  him,  like  any  green- 
finch in  a  net.  Well,  he  will  not  be  forgotten. 
We  w^ill  tell  our  children's  children.' 

Then,  as  talk  is  always  thirsty  work,  they 
would  go  in  and  drink  a  good  rough  red 
wine,  with  the  Lucchese  and  Pistoiese 
strangers,  wherever  some  green  bough  hung 
out  over  a  doorway,  and  over  the  wine  tell 
how  a  waggon  full  of  barrels  of  Neapolitan 
Lacrima  had  been  stopped  but  last  week  by 
Saturnino  on  the  Orbetello  road,  and  the 
Avaggoner,  because  a  crusty  and  unpersuad- 
able obstinate,  had  been  left  in  the  dust  with 
his  feet  cut  off,  Saturnino  being  intolerant 
of  obstinacy. 

MeauAvhile  the  yellow  autumnal  sun 
shone  on  the  grey  stones  of  Grosseto,  and 
bells  clanged,  nudes  brayed,  horses  champed, 
swords  clattered,  and  towards  the  doors  of 
the  prison  a  fresh  squadron  of  carabiniers, 
come  to  replace  the  jaded  escort  of  Saturnino, 
rode  slowly  across  the  square  amidst  the 
muttering  of  the  hostile  people.  What 
mattered  the  wine-carrier?  He  had  been 
only  a  Eomagnolo. 


IN  MABEMMA.  11 


Besides,  all  Maremma  knew  that  it  was 
not  for  the  wine-carrier  at  all  that  their 
demi-god  had  been  hunted  down,  but  for  a 
straniero,  that  no  one  cared  about  except 
the  Government ;  a  traveller  that  Saturnino 
had  shot  in  a  paroxysm  of  jealous  rage,  and 
who  had  been  a  person  of  distinction  enough 
for  the  nation  to  which  he  belonged  to 
demand  that  justice  should  be  done  on  his 
assassin.  The  stranger  had  been  Avaitinfij  for 
a  ransom  to  be  sent,  and  had  looked  at  the 
beautiful  Serapia  who  dwelt  with  Saturnino 
too  long  or  too  boldly,  and  Saturnino  with- 
out waste  of  words  had  blown  his  brains  out ; 
a  rash  act  of  violence  which  had  become  his 
own  undoing. 

And  now  he  had  been  taken ;  taken 
just  like  any  common  thief  who  robbed  an 
old  dame  of  a  copper  coin ;  taken  by  those 
general  foes,  the  soldiery,  and  brought  down 
into  the  lower  lands  with  his  feet  tied  under 
a  horse's  belly,  as  helpless  as  though  he  were 
a  kid  in  a  butcher's  hands.  They  w^ere  rest- 
less, curious,  passionately  eager  to  see  and 
hear ;  but  there  was  only  one  emotion 
amonf^^st  them — rein'et.  A  rcG^ret  whicli  was 
full  of  resentment,  and  sympathy,  and  indig- 
nation, and  whicli  would  have  burned  fiercer 


12  IN  MAREMMA. 


and  higher,  and  become  revolt  and  rescue 
had  not  the  mihtary  force  bepn  strong,  and 
the  mounted  guards  many. 

All  the  multitude  was  awed  and  chilled. 
A  heavy  sense  of  the  power  of  the  law,  of 
a  law  which  they  had  no  sympathy  for,  and 
which  they  feared  with  the  angry  fear  of 
impatient  resentment,  was  weighty  upon 
them,  like  a  sheet  of  lead. 

Many  of  them  were  sensible  of  more  or 
less  close  abetting  of  the  hill  thieves,  more 
or  less  passive  or  active  interest  in  the  lawless 
acts  of  the  band  of  Santa  Flora.  Many  a 
tradesman  there  had  never  sought  too  curi- 
ously to  knoAv  how  the  black-browned  seller 
of  rich  brocades  or  costly  jewellery  had  come 
by  them,  or  how  foreign  gold  had  found  its 
way  to  sunburnt,  powder-blackened  hands. 

Even  those  to  whom  the  great  Saturnino 
Avas  but  a  name,  the  youngsters  come  down 
for  work  from  the  high  villages  of  the  Carra- 
rese  and  Lucchese  ranges,  were  dumbfounded 
and  regretful.  Saturnino  had  always  been 
the  friend  of  the  forester  and  the  ploughman 
and  the  shepherd  ;  the  lads  felt  that  when 
no  more  tales  could  be  told  of  the  kini]:  of 
Maremma,  savour  would  be  gone  out  of  the 
goatsflesh  roasted  in  the    charcoal  in  the 


IK  MAHmiMA. 


woods,  and  the  wineflask  passed  round  when 
the  last  of  the  \o\m  furrows  had  been  turned 
across  the  plains. 

In  a  gloomy  silence,  broken  only  by 
gloomier  mutterings  of  the  crowd,  the  cara- 
biniers  drew  rein  before  the  prison. 

The  closely-packed,  loudly  chattering 
groups  of  men,  few  women  amongst  them 
but  many  in  the  doorways  of  houses  and 
churches,  stood  gathered  together  to  see  him 
brought  out  and  taken  on  his  next  stage  to 
the  tribunal  of  Massa,  where  his  trial  was  to 
take  place.  They  were  all  sorrowful.  None 
blamed  him.     None  thought  him  a  criminal. 

Poveretto  I  he  had  lived  a  bold,  vigorous, 
manfid  life  up  yonder  on  the  snow-capped 
hills  above  the  foaming  Flora  and  down  in 
the  deep,  dark  ravines  where  the  Flora  water 
rolls,  and  in  the  rich  vale  of  the  Albegna, 
and  on  the  treeless  lands  that  stretch  away  to 
Ostia  far  down  in  the  south. 

He  had  been  a  fierce  fellow,  indeed,  and 
a  terror  to  all  travellers,  and  many  a  tale  of 
his  ferocity  to  captives  was  told  from  mouth 
to  mouth  along  the  marshy  shores  of  the 
Maremma,  and  in  the  huts  of  the  shep- 
herds on  its  moors ;  but  the  travellers  were 
all  strangers,  and  the  captives  all  ricli  men, 


14  I2i  MAREMMA, 

for  from  tlie  poor  he  had  never  been  known 
to  levy  a  crust  or  a  coin,  and  the  sym- 
pathy of  the  crowds  Avas  wholly  with  him 
as  they  hung  about  the  cathedral  walls  and 
outside  the  winehouse  doors,  waiting  until 
the  prisoner  should  come  out  with  the  strong 
guard  that  was  to  march  him  to  his  trial  at 
Massa  ;  which  would,  they  knew,  certainly 
end  in  his  condemnation  to  the  mines  of  the 
south  or  the  prisons  on  the  little  island  that 
was  then  glancing  to  amethyst  and  gold  in 
the  glory  of  the  sunset  light,  away  there  to 
the  west  on  the  seas  they  could  not  see. 

They  had  not  to  wait  very  long.  As  the 
time  grew  near,  the  people  became  very 
quiet  in  the  hush  of  expectation. 

For  many  and  many  a  year  to  come,  the 
imagination  of  the  Italian  people  will  be 
always  captivated  and  blinded  by  the  bas- 
tard heroism  of  the  brigand ;  he  is  born 
of  the  soil  and  fast  rooted  in  it ;  he  has 
the  hearts  of  the  populace  with  him ;  and 
his  most  precious  strongliold  is  in  their  sym- 
pathy, from  which  no  laws  and  no  logic  of 
their  rulers  can  dislodge  him  yet. 

Saturnino  Mastarna  w^as  to  all  the  Ma- 
remma  shore  a  hero  still. 

A  few  quiet  citizens  of  Grosseto  apart. 


IN  MAREMMA.  16 

the  people  looking  on  were  all  for  liim, 
and  muttered  menaces  of  the  guards.  The 
mountaineers  and  woodcutters,  and  rough 
labourers  of  all  kmds  that  had  come  down 
into  the  town,  were  most  of  them  men 
to  w^hom  '  to  take  to  the  hills '  seemed  a 
bold  and  right  thing  to  do ;  most  of  them 
would  Lave  been  not  unwillim?  to  trv  it  them- 
selves ;  many  of  them  had  been  often  in  secret 
league  and  complicity  witli  the  terrorism 
which  was  no  terror  to  them,  because  it 
only  struck  the  rich  and  never  harmed  the 
poor.  They  would  have  all  been  willing 
to  rescue  the  doomed  man,  but  they  paused 
doubtfully  :  no  one  taking  the  lead. 

'  Poveretto  !  Poveretto  I '  they  all  muttered 
in  regret  for  him  ;  and  had  there  been  an 
adventurous  spirit  amidst  them  to  advise  his 
rescue,  those  gathered  labourers  of  the  forests 
and  the  plains  might  have  been  formidable 
in  their  resistance  to  the  law. 

But  the  Italian  loves  to  talk  ;  he  loves 
not  equally  to  act.  And  so  they  stood  there., 
sullen,  sympathetic,  but  inert,  as  the  prison 
gates  opened,  and  the  carabiniers  rode  out 
with  Saturnino  in  their  midst. 

The  autumnal  floods  had  for  the  time 
rendered  the  railway  that  runs  through  Gros- 


16  IN  MARJEMMA. 


seto,  from  north  to  south,  impassable,  and 
the  carabiniers  had  had  their  orders  to  ride 
with  him  through  the  twenty  odd  miles  that 
were  under  water.  It  was  thought  well  that 
the  folk  of  Grosseto,  whose  traders  were 
suspected  of  collusion  with  the  brigand,  by 
the  purchase  of  many  of  his  stolen  trea- 
sures, should  see  the  famous  marauder  in 
this  sorry  plight  in  their  streets.  Further 
south,  such  a  spectacle  would  have  pro- 
voked a  rescue,  or  at  least  a  riot ;  but,  in 
Grosseto,  blood  ran  more  quietly  and  more 
soberly,  and  the  multitude  waiting  there  only 
muttered  a  curse  or  two  as  the  httle  troop  of 
horsemen  passed  out  of  the  court  of  the 
prison  and  came  in  sight. 

With   his   legs   tied    beneath  his  horse, 
Grosseto  saw  its  fallen  hero. 

He  was  in  his  own  mountaineer's  dress, 
a  sheepskin  jacket,  breeches  of  untanned 
leather,  a  sash  of  brilliant  crimson,  w^eather 
stained,  a  broad-leafed  hat  with  golden  tas- 
sels, and  in  its  band  a  little  gold  image  of  Our 
Lady.  At  his  throat,  too,  was  a  Madonnina. 
His  pistols,  his  knife,  his  earrings,  they  had 
taken  away  from  him  ;  but  these  little  images 
his  captors  had  left  him,  from  a  charitable 
feelino"  that  it  was  as  well  to  leave  the  man, 


IN  MAREMMA.  17 


in  such  a  strait  as  this,  all  such  aid  as  he 
could  have  from  heaven. 

His  great  black  eyes  were  sombre  and 
terrible  ;  his  dark  locks  hung  to  his  throat, 
slightly  curling,  for  he  had  been  vain  of  his 
good  looks  ;  his  lips  were  rich  and  red  ;  his 
features  straight  and  handsome  ;  his  brow 
was  low,  his  chest  and  his  limbs  were  massive. 
He  was  the  true  robber-chief  of  romance. 

Who  could  say  what  blood  ran  in  his 
veins  ?  His  name  was  the  old  Etruscan 
name  that  had  once  been  that  of  Servius 
Tullius  ;  he  had  been  the  son  of  wild  moun- 
tain hunters  ;  who  could  say  what  blood  of 
omnipotent  Lucumo,  of  aruspex  weighted 
with  the  secrets  of  the  stars,  of  languid  and 
luxurious  Lydian,  of  lustful  lord  of  Sardis, 
might  not  be  in  him,  hot  and  cruel  and 
lascivious  ?  The  Etruscan  name  had  been 
his  forefathers'  for  hundreds  of  years  counted 
on  the  hills. 

'  Is  that  truly  Saturnino  who  is  taken  ?  ' 
asked  an  old  woman  on  the  edge  of  the 
piazza,  a  tall  gaunt  woman  with  blue  eyes 
and  snow-white  hair,  who  had  a  different 
accent  and  look  to  those  of  the  crowd. 

'  Aye,  mother,  that  it  is,'  the  man  nearest 
to  her  answered  sorrowfully. 

VOL.  I.  c 


18  IN  MAREMMA. 


Grosseto  knew  him  well.  He  had  loved 
to  ruffle  it,  in  all  his  finery,  on  feast  days, 
in  its  wineshops  and  on  its  public  ways,  in 
open  bravado  and  scorn  of  the  power  of  the 
law  to  touch  him. 

'  Dear  God ! '  she  muttered,  '  how  are 
the  mighty  fallen  !  Only  the  other  day  and 
his  name  was  a  terror  that  made  the  very 
dead  quake  in  their  graves.' 

And  she  pushed  a  little  nearer  to  see 
better. 

'  It  is  verily  he  !  '  said  the  crowds  now 
wistfully  gazing  up  at  this  fallen  majesty, 
bound  there  on  his  horse's  saddle,  with  the 
muzzle  of  a  trooper's  carbine  resting  on 
either  side  of  him,  as  the  little  band  halted 
for  a  moment  in  the  midst  of  the  cathedral 
square  while  the  captain  bade  farewell  to  the 
syndic  of  the  town.  '  It  is  verily  he  ! '  they 
sighed,  and  were  full  of  regret.  What  would 
Maremma  be  without  its  Saturnino  ? 

'  Ay,  it  is  he ! '  said  the  old  woman, 
bending  her  piercing  eyes  upon  the  face  of 
Mastarna.  She  was  a  plain-featured,  clear- 
skinned  ^voman,  much  beaten  about  by  sea- 
winds  and  scorched  by  poisonous  suns ;  but 
she  had  a  frank,  straight,  and  even  noble 
reixard.     She   dwelt   on   the   low  shores  of 


IN  MAREMMA.  10 


Maremma,  but  in  her  youth  she  •  had  com- 
from  the  Alpine  ranges  of  Savoy. 

She  looked  at  Saturnino  as  she  stood  on 
the  edge  of  the  crowd,  and  said,  '  Ay,  ay,  it 
is  he ! ' 

'  You  have  seen  him  before,  mother  ?  '  said 
an  eager  youth,  who  had  come  from  the 
Apennines  to  go  and  make  charcoal  in  tlie 
Ciminian  w^oods  aw^ay  yonder  to  the  south- 
east. 

'Ay,  ay,'  she  said  briefly,  and  said  no 
more,  being  a  woman  of  few  words,  wdio, 
though  she  had  dwelt  here  fifty  years, 
w^as  always  called  the  woman  of  Savoy,  and 
deemed  an  alien  and  a  stranger. 

She  was  standing  near  the  troop  of  horse- 
men, clad  in  a  russet  gown,  w^ith  a  yellow 
handkerchief  tied  about  her  wdiite  hair.  The 
brigand  was  sitting  in  his  saddle,  sullen, 
sombre,  ashamed  :  ashamed  to  be  brought 
thus  amidst  the  people,  like  a  netted  calf, 
like  a  yoked  bull. 

The  old  woman  with  the  keen  blue 
eyes,  and  the  face  that  had  once  been  fair, 
looked  with  the  rest,  and  though  she  was  an 
honest  woman,  law-abiding.  God-fearing,  her 
heart  also  was  heavy  for  this  hawk  of  the 
bills  that  for  ever  w^as  caged. 

c  2 


20  IN  MAREMMA. 

She  had  been  a  woman  of  many  sorrows, 
to  whom  death  had  been  unkind,  and  a 
little  son  of  her  dead  daughter's  had  been 
all  that  had  been  left  to  her  of  the  children 
of  her  blood.  And  one  day  the  little  lad  had 
been  lost,  going  with  his  goats  on  the  high 
passes  above  the  Albegna  valley,  and  there 
had  been  found  by  the  dread  Saturnino, 
asleep,  and  frozen,  where  the  snows  were 
deep,  and  Saturnino,  who  never  hurt  the 
poor,  had  taken  him  up  in  his  arms  and 
carried  him  to  his  own  lair  miles  away,  and 
there  fed  and  tended  him,  and  next  day 
sent  him  down  by  one  of  his  own  men  into 
his  native  village  safe  and  sound,  and  with 
twenty  broad  gold  pieces  in  his  little  woollen 
breeches. 

She,  being  a  brave  woman  and  a  holy 
one,  no  sooner  found  her  one  lost  lamb  thus 
than  she  took  the  most  precious  thing  she 
had,  an  image  of  Our  Lady,  that  had  been 
blessed  by  God's  Vicegerent,  and  slipped 
that  and  the  gold  coins  in  her  pouch,  and 
said  to  the  mountaineer  who  had  brought 
her  boy,  '  Lead  me  to  your  chief  that  I 
may  thank  him.' 

The  man  demurred  .and  was  afraid,  but 
finally  she  prevailed,  and  he  took  her  back 


IN  MAREMMA.  21 

with  him,  a  long  and  toilsome  tramp  up  into 
the  hills,  staying  one  night  at  a  cabin  on  the 
way,  and  when  they  started  on  the  morrow 
blindfolding  her  eyes  that  she  should  not  see 
whither  she  went. 

When  the  handkerchief  was  hfted  she 
was  in  the  presence  of  Saturnino,  whose 
eyes,  according  to  the  people's  tales,  could 
send  out  flame  and  burn  up  those  on  whom 
his  rage  lighted. 

But  she  was  not  afraid.  She  took  out 
of  her  pouch  the  holy  image  and  the  gold 
pieces,  and  she  held  them  both  out  to  him. 

'  Saturnino,'    she   said  to   him,  '  I  have 
come  up  hither  to  bless  you  with  my  own 
voice,  for  you  have  restored  to  me  the  only 
little  hving  thing  I  have  to  love,  and  night 
and  day  I  will  pray  to  the  saints  to  have 
you   in   their   holy   keeping.     And  I  have 
brought  you  the  only  bit  of  value  that  I 
own — a    Madonna    that    our   Holy   Father 
blessed — and   do   you   ])\\i   it   by   a   string 
about   your   throat,    and   it   will   keep   the 
thoughts   and   hopes  of  heaven   with   you. 
But  this  gold  that  you  gave  to  my  boy  I 
bring  you  back,  because  I  know  too  well, 
alas !  alas  !  how  all  your  gold  is  gained.' 
The  men  standing  around  thought  that 


22  IN  MAREMMA. 

he  would  cut  her  clown  with  a  stroke  of  his 
sword  straight  through  skull  and  throat. 
But  he  did  not  harm  her.  He  took  the 
image  meekly  like  a  chidden  child,  and  the 
gold  pieces  he  dashed  in  the  snow. 

'  A  brave  soul ! '  he  said  of  her,  and  she 
blessed  him  once  more,  and  kissed  his  hand 
that  had  sent  many  a  one  to  an  untimely 
death,  and  took  her  homeward  way  again, 
praying  silently  that  the  holy  hosts  of  heaven 
might  be  about  his  steps  and  win  him  from 
his  sin. 

Since  that  time,  when  she  had  gone  up 
into  his  very  lair,  she  had  not  seen  Satur- 
nino.  Twenty  years  had  gone  hj.  The  little 
boy  that  he  had  saved  had  died  of  fever — 
the  ghastly  fever  that  walks  these  shores  all 
summer  through  like  the  ghost  of  dead 
Etruria. 

Twenty  years  had  gone  by,  and  Satur- 
nino,  from  a  young  and  generous  man  who, 
although  fierce  and  terrible,  could  be  merci- 
ful and  just,  had  grown  year  by  year  a 
deeper  terror,  a  dreader  name ;  not  to  Ma- 
remma  still,  for  still  he  spared  the  poor,  but 
to  the  law  and  state.  More  murders  lay 
upon  his  soul  than  he  had  time  to  count ; 
his   will,   which   was   unchecked   by   those 


IN  MAREMMA.  23 


around,  and  unbridled  by  any  fear  of  conse- 
quence or  qualm  of  conscience,  had  grown 
overbearing,  intolerant,  exacting,  and  ca- 
pricious almost  to  madness. 

Amongst  his  many  loves  he  had  conceived 
a  violent  passion  for  the  woman  whom  he 
had  carried  off  and  kept  up  in  his  mountain 
lair  by  force  :  that  most  beautiful  Serapia, 
of  whom  the  stranger  waiting  for  his  ransom 
had  been  too  amorous.  Serapia  had  died, 
and  after  her  loss  all  that  there  had  been  of 
any  softness  in  the  nature  of  the  man  had 
been  burnt  out  under  the  fires  of  his  hatred 
of  fate  and  rebellion  against  his  misery ;  lie 
had  become  a  monster  of  cruelty,  having  in 
him  the  same  temper  as  of  old  made  the 
tyrants  of  Padova  and  Verona  and  Brescia 
the  scourges  of  their  generation.  Even  his 
men  had  begun  to  grow  disloyal  under  the 
iron  heel  of  his  unendurable  despotism,  and 
the  treachery  of  one  of  these  had  delivered 
him  over  into  the  chains  of  the  State  at 
wliicli  he  had  laughed  in  secure  defiance  for 
so  long. 

Yet  the  hearts  of  the  folk  in  Gros- 
seto  were  sad  for  his  fate,  and  the  old 
woman  with  the  northern  eyes  said  to  her 
neighbours  :  '  Nay,  I  am  sorry  he  has  been 


21  IN  MAREMMA, 

taken.  You  remember  how  he  saved  my 
Carlino.  Always  I  have  hoped  that  with 
time  and  my  prayers  Saturnino  woukl  some 
day  turn  to  an  honest  life.' 

'  -Nay,  mother,'  said  a  Pistoiese, '  of  a  fox 
never  can  you  make  a  house-dog.  The  pity 
is  that  such  a  man  had  not  luck  to  the  end 
to  die  of  a  shot  or  a  sword -thrust  out  on  his 
own  hills.' 

The  people  murmured  assent ;  that  would 
have  been  fitting  enough  certainly.  But  the 
galleys !  For  Saturnino  to  be  chained  and 
numbered,  set  to  work  with  an  axe  or  a 
spade  in  dockyard  or  on  highway,  cowed 
with  the  whip  of  the  overseer,  and  pointed 
out  like  a  wild  beast  to  strangers,  that 
seemed  hard. 

The  thought  of  it  made  the  blood 
curdle  and  grow  cold  in  their  veins  with 
the  fear  of  that  law  which  could  work  this 
miracle. 

'  If  one  may  not  kill  the  man  who  covets 
our  ganza^  what  use  are  powder  and  shot  ?  ' 
said  the  men  of  Grosseto. 

Suddenly  the  old  woman  of  the  north 
put  her  hand  into  her  pocket,  drew  out  a 
piece  of  money,  pushed  her  way  to  a  wine- 
shop   a    few   yards    behind   her,   bought  a 


IN  MAREMMA.  26 

stoup  of  the  best  wine,  and  came  out  with 
it.  She  went  straight  up  to  the  carabiniers, 
and  said  to  them  : 

'  Yon  man  did  me  a  good  turn  once. 
Will  you  let  me  give  him  this  to  wet  his 
lips  ?  A  good  man  he  is  not ;  but  he  was 
good  once.' 

The  guards  hesitated.  They  were  not 
churlish  ;  they  had  a  lingering  sympathy 
themselves  for  their  prisoner,  who  had  been 
taken  in  a  snare  at  the  last,  after  having  been 
the  hero  of  all  Maremma  twenty-five  years 
and  more,  since  he  had  been  a  mere  lad 
when  he  had  first  captured  a  great  English 
milord,  and  had  let  him  go  with  only  the 
loss  of  one  ear  cut  off,  in  consideration  of 
a  ransom  of  thirty  thousand  scudi. 

Saturnino,  sitting  with  his  head  erect,  and 
his  great  black  eyes  blazing  in  a  scorn  he 
strove  to  assume,  that  he  might  hide  the 
bitter  shame  at  his  heart,  heard  the  voice  of 
the  woman,  and  glanced  at  her. 

The  carabinier  on  his  right  side,  relent- 
ing, held  the  wine  towards  his  mouth.  The 
brigand's  hands  were  tied  behind  his  back,  or 
he  would  have  dashed  the  pewter  cup  down. 
As  it  was,  he  would  not  drink ;  but  his 
sombre  eyes  dwelt  on  the  woman. 


26  IK  MAUEMMA, 

'  Let  her  speak  to  me,'  he  said. 

The  carabiniers  were  ill-disposed  to  obey, 
but  they  saw  that  the  crowd  was-  eager  and 
full  of  pity  for  Saturnino.  They  were  afraid 
to  irritate,  since  they  had  not  gagged,  him  ; 
and,  after  all,  a  woman  could  do  no  harm. 

One  of  them  moved,  so  as  to  let  her  in 
between  his  horse  and  that  of  the  captive. 
He  kept  the  muzzle  of  the  cocked  carbine 
pointed  against  her  ;  but  she  was  a  brave 
woman  ;  she  did  not  heed  that. 

'  Drink  my  wine,  Mastarna,'  she  said  to 
him,  and  lifted  the  cup  herself. 

'  Is  it  you,  Joconda  ?  '  he  said. 

But  he  did  not  drink. 

'  It  is  Joconda,'  she  said  cin^tly,  '  How 
came  you  in  this  plight  ?  ' 

'  I  was  betrayed,'  said  the  brigand,  while 
his  great  despairing  eyes  flashed  as  a  knife 
that  is  raised  to  kill  flashes  in  the  light,  and 
he  said  it  more  truthfully  than  many  greater 
conquered  conquerors  who  excuse  their  own 
feebleness  and  lack  of  forecast  by  the  plea  of 
treachery.  He  had  been  betrayed,  and  seized 
as  he  had  sat  drinking  at  sunset  at  the  door 
of  his  hut  in  the  hills. 

'  Joconda,  I  saved  your  lamb,'  he  said, 
after  a  pause. 


IN  MAJREMMA.  27 

'  You  did.  You  are  a  butcher  ;  but  you 
saved  my  lamb.  That  is  why  I  am  sorry 
to-day.' 

'  Save  my  lamb,  then.' 

'  Have  you  one  ?  ' 

'  I  have  one  that  I  love.  She  is  Serapia's 
child.  I  loved  her  mother,  and  her  mother 
is  dead.     Go  and  save  her! ' 

'  Where  is  she  ?  ' 

'  Up  yonder,'  he  answered,  with  a  back- 
ward gesture  of  his  head  to  where,  in  the 
haze  of  the  far  distance,  the  snowy  hills  of 
his  own  lair  lay.  '  Any  one  will  tell  you  on 
the  hills.  Ask  for  the  Eocca  del  Giulio. 
They  seized  me  ;  my  men  fought,  but  they 
killed  them.  She  was  with  women ;  but 
they  may  have  fled.  Will  you  find  her, 
and  bring  her  up  in  your  house  ?  ' 

The  face  of  the  old  woman  grew  weary 
and  perplexed. 

'  It  will  be  a  burden,  Mastarna.' 

'  Ay,  it  will.  Do  as  you  choose.  But 
she  is  little  and  alone.' 

The  woman  paused  and  mused. 

'  I  will  take  her  if  I  can  find  her,'  she 
said  at  length. 

Across  the  bold,  sombre,  fierce  face  of 
the  fettered  man  a  strong  emotion  swept. 


28  IN  MAREMMA. 

'  Lift  your  wine  to  my  mouth,'  he  said. 
'  I  will  drink  it  now.' 
And  he  drank. 

'Loosen  the  image  from  my  hat.  She 
has  the  same  about  her  throat ;  her  mother 
hung  tliem  both.  I  have  your  Madonnina 
still  at  mine,'  he  muttered,  when  he  had 
drained  the  cup. 

She  put  one  foot  on  the  stirrup,  for 
she  was  strong  and  active,  though  old ; 
loosened  the  golden  image,  and  detached  it 
from  its  place.  At  that  moment  the  officer 
in  charge  of  the  escort,  arriving  in  haste,  re- 
proved his  men  in  fury,  and  the  horses  started 
so  suddenly  that  she  could  scarcely  save  her- 
self from  falling  between  their  legs  and  being 
trampled  to  pieces  on  the  stones. 

By  good  fortune  she  escaped  injury,  and 
only  fell  on  her  knees,  and  rose  again  unhurt. 
The  troop  of  carabiniers  were  trotting  out 
of  the  square,  their  carbines  pointed  at  the 
head  of  Saturnino. 

They  soon  vanished  in  the  golden  haze  of 
the  rising  sun. 

A  hundred  hands  were  stretched  to  touch 
her ;  a  hundred  questions  rained  on  her  ear. 

'  What  did  Saturnino  tell  you,  mother  ?  ' 
cried  the  Grosseto  folk  jealously,  for  they 


IN  MAREMMA.  29 


had  been  so  kept  at  musket's  length  by  the 
guards  that  no  one  had  heard  a  syllable  of 
what  had  been  said. 

'  I  knew  him  years  agone,'  she  answered, 
'and  he  bade  me  hang  this  image  in  some 
chapel,  that  Our  Lady  may  have  grace  to 
him.  Nay,  hands  off;  it  shall  go  where  he 
told  me.  And  he  whom  you  call  your 
Saturnino  needs  heaven's  mercy  sorely;  for 
he  was  a  murderer  many  times — many  times.' 

For  these  were  her  foolish  notions,  she 
being  a  woman  from  the  north. 

More  they  could  not  get  out  of  her.  She 
carried  the  empty  wine-cup  back  to  the  wine- 
shop, and  then  made  her  way  quietly  out  of 
the  square  by  a  narrow  lane. 

The  people  stood  about  in  a  silent,  sad, 
sullen  mob  ;  discomfited  and  dissatisfied  with 
themselves  that  they  had  not  struck  a  blow 
for  their  hero. 

Saturnino  Mastarna  had  been  a  robber  ; 
and,  as  she  had  justly  said,  a  murderer  many 
times.  He  had  swooped  down  on  the  lonely 
mountain  paths  above  the  mountain-born 
Flora,  and  along  the  once  consular  and  im- 
perial highway  that  runs  through  Orbetello 
and  Civita  Vecchia  to  Kome,  even  as  the 
pseudoetus  eagle  of  these  hills  swoops  down 


30  IN  MARE  MM  A. 


from  his  cliff-nest,  made  of  oak  leaves  and 
olive  boughs,  on  to  the  water-fowls  of  the 
pools,  until  the  daring  and  the  frequency  of 
his  captures  had  made  his  name  a  household 
word  that  had  rung  far  and  wide  beyond 
the  confines  of  Maremma. 

Therefore  Maremma  had  been  proud  of 
him  ;  proud  in  a  fierce,  defiant  way  that  had 
given  him  many  a  nameless  ally  amidst  the 
scattered  gentry  of  all  that  wild  and  lone- 
some country,  and  even  here  in  old  grave 
Grosseto,  a  score  of  miles  away  from  the 
foaming  waters  of  the  Flora,  people  had 
felt  the  same  pride  in  him,  and  now,  as  the 
trot  of  the  horses  and  the  clangour  of 
weapons  died  away  into  silence,  there  were 
regret  and  a  smothered  rage  in  the  populace 
to  think  that  their  hero  should  have  been 
brought  throu^rh  their  streets  with  his  feet 
tied  under  the  belly  of  his  horse,  to  go  to  the 
galleys  of  Gorgona  or  the  salt  mines  of  Sar- 
dinia, and  be  no  more  seen  of  men,  although 
for  years  and  years  to  come  the  story  of  his 
exploits  would  be  told  from  mouth  to  mouth 
wherever  a  group  of  woodmen  sat  about  the 
forest  fires  at  night,  or  a  couple  of  fishermen 
wiled  the  becalmed  day  away  with  talk,  or 
in   the  winter  evenings    in  farmhouses    far 


IX  MAREMMA.  31 


away  on  the  Luccliese  hills  men  and  maidens 
munched  the  chestnuts  with  white  teeth. 

A  great  stillness  and  gloom  fell  on  the 
populace,  and  the  tongues  of  the  people  for 
once  ceased  to  buzz  and  scream,  and  were 
only  heard  in  a  few  rebellious  mutterings 
against  the  State,  whicli  took  a  frank  free- 
booter like  a  rat  in  a  trap  and  dealt  with 
him  as  it  dealt  with  any  paltry  thief  of 
the  cities.  Saturnino  was  gone :  a  dead 
man,  or  worse  than  a  dead  man,  and  never 
more  would  his  native  Maremma  thrill  with 
the  Homeric  tales  of  his  acts ;  never  more 
would  this  town  of  Grosseto  see  him  stride 
through  their  public  places  with  his  pistols 
and  knife  in  his  broad  red  sash,  and  his 
bold  black  eyes  full  of  challenge  and 
scorn. 

It  was  all  over,  like  wine  spilt  on  the 
ground ;  henceforth  the  Maremma  would  speak 
of  him  only  with  bated  breath,  and  memo- 
ries half  glorious,  half  sad,  like  the  memories 
of  dead  heroes,  Saturnhio  Mastarna  was 
gone  ;  seized  by  the  impalpable,  far-reaching, 
spectral  ami  of  the  law,  which  to  a  rustic 
and  simple  people  is  so  vaguely  terrible,  so 
unjust,  so  incomprehensible,  coming  out,  as 
it  seems    to  them    to    do,   from  the    infinite 


32  I^"  MAREMMA. 

and  the  unknown  to  seize  them  for  their 
secret  sins. 

He  was  gone,  and  there  was  httle  mirth 
in  Grosseto  that  day,  though  usually  the 
October  weeks  are  full  of  merriment  and  busi- 
ness, of  song  and  dance,  of  bargains  made, 
and  of  wine  drunk,  and  of  gladness  at  the 
coming  winter,  and  of  sportive  love  offered 
and  returned.  But  this  day  the  crowds 
were  dull  and  vexed,  and  looking  in  each 
other's  faces  read  one  nnspoken  thought 
there,  common  to  all : — 

'  We  should  have  rescued  him  ! ' 


CHAPTER  II. 


^EAXWHILE  Joconcla  Eomanelli, 
the  woman  who  had  had  the 
courage  to  speak  a  bold  word  for 
his  sake,  left  the  town  to  itself 
and  j)repared  to  return  on  her  liomeward 
way  to  her  village  of  Santa  Tarsilla,  a  long 
way  off  upon  the  coast,  a  low-lying  sickly 
sea-shore  place. 

Twice  a  year  regularly  slie  yoked  her  mule 
to  her  cart  and  drove  into  Grosseto,  making 
a  two  days'  journey  on  the  road  each  way, 
on  purpose  to  sell  the  homespun  linen  she 
had  woven  from  thread  she  had  spun  in  the 
six  months'  time.  She  knew  a  hosier  in 
Grosseto  who  only  sold  '  nosirair  linen,  and 
gave  her  a  fair  price  for  hers  at  spring  and 
autumn.  She  thought  him  honester  than 
Orbetello  folk,  so  made  the  louger  drive 
ttcrdss  the  wild  and  loiiGly  couutry. 

VQI..  I,  D 


34  IX  MAREMMA. 

She  went  now  to  the  tavern  where 
she  had  slept,  and  wdiere  her  mule  "was  put 
up,  harnessed  him  with  her  own  hands,  and 
drove  out  of  the  city  gates  with  her  hardly- 
earned  gains  in  a  bag  amongst  the  hay  and 
straw  at  her  feet. 

She  went  over  the  flat  desolate  lands 
that  lie  cheerlessly  and  barrenly  about  Gros- 
seto,  past  the  lime  quarries  of  Alberese, 
over  the  narrow  ill-made  roads  that  traverse 
the  marshes,  and  over  the  rivers  by  ford  or 
ferry  or  bridge,  and  underneath  hills  dark 
•with  forest  where  the  buck  and  the  boar 
roamed  at  liberty.  She  drove  as  long  as  it 
was  light,  then  reached  a  miserable  little  inn, 
but  a  friendly  one,  and  slept  there  ;  then  at 
dawn  resumed  her  homeward  way. 

She  drove  on  and  on,  the  old  mule 
ambling  slowly,  for  he  only  had  long  journeys 
twice  a  year,  and  resented  them  mournfully ; 
the  moss  and  the  marshes,  the  wide  fields 
lying  red  and  bare  for  the  plough,  and  the 
little  knots  of  pale  dust-coloured  houses  that 
made  the  villages  of  the  hill -sides,  were 
passed  in  succession  until  she  got  across 
country  and  down  to  the  level  of  the  sea, 
and  saw  little  else  save  stunted  aloes  and 
sand,   though  the   distance  was    dark  with 


IN  MAREMMA.  35 


the  outskirts  of  the  retreating  Apennines, 
and  the  woods  upon  the  Giglio  island  rose 
up  in  sight. 

When  she  could  see  the  isle  she  hati 
reached  her  home,  an  old  house  of  stone 
and  oak  timber  standing  near  the  wharf  of 
the  small  township  of  Santa  Tarsilla,  on  a 
little  bay,  that  scholars  affirmed  had  once 
been,  like  its  neighbours  Telamone  and 
Populonia,  a  port  of  those  sea-kings,  the 
Etruscans. 

In  this  little  bay  some  small  traffic  in  fish, 
and  in  the  stone  and  charcoal  from  inland, 
kept  the  little  place  from  absolute  stagnation 
and  death  ;  but  in  the  summer  nearly  all  its 
few  souls  fled  away,  and  in  summer  no  coast- 
ing smack  cared  to  lie  by  its  little  quay. 

For  it  was  full  of  miasma  and  fever  in  the 
hot  season,  like  all  these  places  on  the  low 
Maremma  coast ;  even  now  in  the  late  days 
of  October  the  fever  mists  still  hung  about  it, 
the  pools  and  the  beach  still  sent  out  noxious 
vapours,  the  scanty  population  sat  about 
listless  and  shivering,  the  children  lay  on  the 
sand  too  weak  to  care  to  play,  and  there 
were  but  two  or  three  of  them  in  all  the 
place ;  a  few  fishermen  were  out  upon  the 
shore,  a  coastguardsman  paced  to  and  fro,  a 

p  2 


36  I2i  MAREMMA. 

little  vessel  was  shipping  graiu,  anchored 
amongst  the  mud-choked  shoals  :  that  was  all. 

It  was  a  dreary  place  at  the  best  of 
times ;  antiquaries  said  that  the  sea  had 
receded  nearly  a  mile  since  the  days  when 
the  Etruscan  pirates  had  sailed  from  that 
bay,  and  Etruscan  lucomonies  had  had  their 
fortresses  and  their  tombs  away  yonder  where 
the  shore  line  grew  dusky  with  thickets  of 
bay  and  rosemary  and  the  prickly  mariicca, 
or  holy  thorn/  so  common  here. 

'You  are  safe  home,  mother?'  said  the 
pallid  women,  as  the  mule  of  Joconda  picked 
his  way  amidst  the  stones  and  sand  to  his 
own  house  door. 

'  Aye,  the  saints  be  praised,'  said  Joconda, 
and  said  no  more. 

They  knew  the  woman  of  Savoy  never 
chattered,  and  that  it  was  useless  to  ask 
from  her  gossip  of  Grosseto  until  she  had 
stabled  her  beast  and  broken  her  fast,  and  of 
not  very  much  use  after  that.  Joconda  went 
on  to  her  own  dwelling  ;  it  was  all  of  stone 
with  a  roof  of  red  tiles;  it  was  old  and 
spacious,  and  had  pointed  casements  and  a 
massive  oak  door  ;  her  living-room  and  her 
bed-chamber  were  all  the  rooms  she  used^ 

'  Paliurm  aneiraUs> 


IN  MAHEMMA.  37 


tlie  next  room  she  had  given  to  her  mule 
and  her  poultry,  and  a  fine  black  pig. 
The  floors  were  of  stone,  and  the  ceilings 
too  ;  there  was  an  open  hearth  tliat  served 
her  for  cooking  ;  the  hearth  now  was 
cold. 

She  first  put  her  money  into  a  secret 
place,  stabled  her  mule,  counted  her  fowls, 
to  be  sure  none  were  stolen,  and  then  lit 
a  little  fire  and  put  on  a  pot  of  vegetable 
soup.  Then  she  sat  down  and  thought 
while  her  frugal  supper  was  simmering. 

She  did  not  tell  anyone  of  what  she  had 
seen,  and  heard,  and  promised  in  Grosseto. 
She  was  not  a  sociable  woman,  and  she  had 
only  neighbours,  no  friends. 

Joconda  Eomanelli  had  been  taciturn 
and  grave  for  forty  years ;  ever  since  one 
summer  day,  when  her  man  had  gone  down 
in  a  white  squall,  like  that  which  wrecked 
Shelley.  She  had  loved  the  man,  and  had 
been  sternly  faithful  to  him  and  to  the 
offspring  he  had  left  her.  She  had  always 
got  her  own  living  by  carrying  cargo  to 
the  coasters  for  her  husband's  comrades, 
and  taking  her  linen  into  Grosseto ;  in  bad 
weather  she  sat  at  home  and  span,  or 
made  fishing  nets  and  sewed  sails.     She  wag 


38  IN  MAREMMA. 


active  and  very  hardy ;  slie  lived  honestly, 
and  in  a  stern,  cleanly  fashion  that  made  her 
village  people  think  her  odd  and  be  a  little 
afraid  of  her.  Her  sons  had  died  of  the 
marsh  fever  and  her  daughter  had  left  her  a 
motherless  grandson,  a  bold  fair  boy,  the  lamb 
that  Saturnino  had  saved  ten  years  before 
when  the  boy  had  gone  up  with  his  goats  into 
the  mountains  ;  for  which  mercy  Joconda 
and  her  lad  had  blessed  him  every  day  and 
night  they  told  their  beads. 

But  though  Saturnino  had  spared  the 
boy,  the  fever  had  not  done  so ;  and  ever 
since  his  death  Joconda  had  dwelt  alone  with 
her  dead  memories.  She  had  been  a  sad 
woman  always,  but  she  was  a  strong  one. 
She  worked  for  her  living,  and  owed  nobody 
a  bronze  piece,  and  was  half  respected  and 
half  feared,  which  she  liked  better  than  being 
loved. 

Fifty  years  before  she  had  been  brought 
here  from  her  mountain  home  fronting^  the 
high  chain  of  the  Grand  Paradis  by  her  hus- 
band after  a  fishing  cruise  to  the  seaboard 
of  lower  Savoy,  and  the  tradition  of  her 
northern  birth  made  her  still  *  a  stranger '  to 
the  people  of  Santa  Tarsilla  and  all  the  low- 
lying  shore.     She  had  never  seen  Savoy  for 


IN  MAMEMMA.  89 

nigh  fifty  years,  but  she  was  *  the  woman  of 
Savoy '  to  them  all. 

It  had  been  a  fatal  day  for  her  when  her 
mother's  sister,  a  farmer's  wife  near  S.  Martin 
Lantosque,  had  lost  her  cows  one  by  one  by 
disease,  and  sent  to  beg  that  her  niece,  who 
was  so  skilled  in  dairy  matters,  would  go 
and  spend  a  summer  with  her  ;  and  in  the 
course  of  that  summer,  up  at  Lantosque,  to 
visit  mountain' neighbours,  there  had  come 
some  seafaring  men  from  Villafranca,  away 
on  the  seaboard,  and  amongst  them  had 
been  a  man  of  Maremma,  Sostegno  Eoma- 
nelli,  the  owner  of  a  tartana  then  lying  off 
the  shores  of  Savoy.  He  had  been  a  hand- 
some young  man,  and  at  that  time  well-to-do 
as  a  coaster ;  he  had  persuaded  the  blue- 
eyed  maiden  from  the  green  alps  above  the 
Val  de  Cogne  to  give  a  favourable  answer  to 
his  wooing.  She  and  he  had  been  wedded 
that  same  summer  at  the  little  church  of 
S.  Martin,  and  she  had  gone  to  live  with 
him  at  his  native  Maremmana  town. 

Tilings  had  done  very  well  with  them 
awhile  ;  then  turned  and  went  as  ill.  The 
tartana  had  to  be  sold,  and  its  owner  had  to 
become  a  deep-water  fislierman,  working  for 
the  gain  of  others.     His  wife,  ashamed  of 


40  AY  MAHEMMA. 

tlieir  troubles,  which  her  own  people  had 
predicted,  ceased  to  write  to  the  chalet 
under  the  arolla  forests. 

They  were  homely  people  there  on  the 
pine-clad  heights  above  Cogne,  but  there 
was  always  a  homely  plenty,  and  no  penury 
touched  them.  They  were  good-hearted, 
but  hard  of  mind  and  scanty  in  sympatliy. 
She  could  never  bring  herself  to  tell  them 
that  she  had  married  into  poverty,  and  was 
sick  to  death  of  this  fatal  shore  to  which 
her  Maremmano  had  brought  her.  So  silence 
fell  between  her  and  her  own  family,  and  up 
on  the  mountain  slopes  that  faced  the  Grand 
Paradis  her  brothers  and  sisters  ceased  to 
remember  and  ceased  to  regret  her. 

She  slept  a  little  now  over  her  supper, 
being  weary ;  she  was  woke  by  neighbours' 
voices ;  women  were  looking  in  at  her  win- 
dow and  tapping  at  it,  being"  unable  any 
longer  to  subdue  their  eagerness  for  news. 

'Is  it  true  that  Saturnino  has  been 
taken,  good  mother  ?  '  they  asked  her. 

*  Ay,  ay,  why  not  ? '  she  answered 
crossly.     '  He  has  been  taken.' 

'  Did  you  see  him  in  Grosseto  ?  ' 

'  Yes,  the  poor  soul !  with  his  legs  tied 
under  the  horse's  belly.' 


IN  MAREMMA.  41 


'  Oh,  the  hard  pity  of  it ! '  mourned  the 
gossips  with  a  wail. 

*  He  has  got  his  deserts,'  said  Joconda. 
'  A  fine  long  time  he  has  been  loose  on  these 
hills.     Luck  always  changes.' 

'  It  was  that  foreign  man  that  made  the 
fuss,'  the  women  muttered.  '  He  must 
have  been  some  great  prince,  else  never 
would  they  have  captured  Saturnino  for 
his  misfortune.' 

*  Misfortune  '  was  their  fine  way  of  speak- 
ing ;  they  knew  well  that  the  traveller  had 
been  foully  murdered. 

'  He  killed  the  foreigner,'  said  Joconda 
curtly.  '  He  had  killed  scores.  That  one 
was  the  one  too  much.     That  was  all.' 

The  women  at  the  window  muttered 
that  this  was  just  the  caprice  and  injustice 
of  the  government  and  the  soldiers ;  a 
murder  more  or  less  (if  it  were  a  murder), 
did  it  matter  so  much?  Saturnino  was  a 
fine  bold  man,  and  never  had  harmed  the 
poor. 

'  Why,  he  had  good  about  him,'  assented 
Joconda.  '  But  murder  is  not  a  good  thing  ; 
I  wish  he  had  had  other  ways  of  living. 
Alas  !  poor  soul !  upon  that  rock  of  Gorgona 
his  crimes  will  be  cold  comfort  to  him.' 


42  m  MAREMMA, 


'And  that  is  true,'  said  the  gossips, 
crossing  themselves  ;  '  did  you  speak  to  him, 
mother?  Was  there  any  chance  to  say  a 
word  ?  ' 

'  Yes ;  I  spoke  to  him.' 

'  What  did  he  say  to  you  ? ' 

'  He  reminded  me  of  my  dead  lamb,  and 
I  told  him  I  had  not  forgot  my  debt.' 

'  Was  that  all  ?  ' 

'  Yes ;  get  you  to  your  beds  ;  I  want  to 
get  to  mine.' 

And  she  nodded  to  them,  and  shut  her 
latticed  casement  behind  its  wire  grating, 
and  shut  out  the  sight  of  the  moonlit  sea, 
and  the  shining  sands  that  hid  her  dead. 
She  heard  them  under  her  house  wall  on 
the  edge  of  the  beach,  for  the  night  was  still 
young,  talking  still  of  the  hero  of  the  hills 
and  of  his  fate.  She  heard  the  deeper  tones 
of  a  man's  voice  strike  across  theirs  and  say  : 

'  No  bolder  soul  ever  lived  than  Satur- 
nino  Mastarna.  They  have  taken  him,  and 
they  will  cage  him  out  on  Gorgona  yonder, 
or  send  him  to  the  King's  mines.  If  man 
could  free  him,  I  would  free  him.  What  did 
he  do  ever  ?  Did  he  steal  from  the  poor  ? 
No.  Did  he  rob  the  church  ?  No.  Did  ever 
a   peasant   miss  his   sheep,  or  a   woodman 


IN  MAHHMMA.  43 

his  wallet ;  or  a  labourer  that  had  got  his 
wages  in  his  waistband,  was  he  ever  lightened 
of  them  by  Saturnino  ?     Nay,  never.    That 
we   know.      We   have  come  and  gone   on 
his  mountains  and  never  were  we  the  worse. 
When  old  Montino  was  lost  in  the  snow  on 
Santa  Flora,  what  did  Mastarna  do  when  he 
found  him  ?     Took  him  to  his  own  hut,  and 
warmed,  and  fed  him,  and  gave  him  of  the 
best,  and  when  he  saw  that  old  Montino  had 
a  bag  of  gold  pieces  with  him,  said  to  him, 
"  Fear  nothing  ;  neither  I  nor  my  men  will 
touch  your  gold,  because   you  are  an  old 
man  and  a  steward,  and  the  loss  would  get 
you  blamed  by  your  masters,  maybe  thrown 
in  prison."      And   when  full  day  came,  he 
himself  took  Montino  down  the  mountain  as 
far  as  the  first  ford  that  crosses  the  Flora. 
Five  hundred  times,  if  once,  have  I  heard 
the   history  from   Montino  himself.      Nay, 
Saturnino  was  a  brave  man,  and  a  generous, 
and  because  he  aided  this  stranger  to  escape 
from  the  burden  of  life,  they  have  caged  him 
in  a  trap  as  you  catch  a  dondola.     It  is  vile. 
The   stranger  was  a  rich  man  in  liis   own 
country,  a  great  prince,  they  say ;  what  did 
he  do  here  in  Italy  ?  why  not  stay  where  he 
was?   'It  was  always  the  rich  that  Mastarna 


44  IN  MABEMMA. 


made  war  on  ;  the  poor  were  sacred  to  him. 
That  we  know.  Yet  he  will  lie  in  chains 
amidst  the  waves  on  Gorgona,  or  waste  his 
strength  in  the  mines  in  the  bowels  of  the 
earth.     It  is  unjust.     It  is  unjust.' 

Then  an  assenting  and  approving  murmur 
rose  up  from  the  listening  people  and  joined 
with  the  murmur  of  the  sea. 

Joconda  heard  them  as  she  lay  on  her 
hard  straw  bed. 

*  And  there  is  a  grain  of  truth  in  what 
they  say,'  she  thought.  '  Yet  his  sins  were 
many  and  deep,  poor  soul !  and  they  will  be 
heavier  about  his  neck  than  the  chains  he 
will  wear  on  Gorgona.  May  Christ  lighten 
them  ! ' 

Then  she  slept. 

She  was  a  woman  who  usually  enjoyed 
the  dreamless,  heavy  sleep  of  the  hard 
worker  ;  but  all  through  this  night  she 
dreamed  and  saw  the  bold  form  of  Satur- 
nino  chained,  and  with  his  crimes  written  on 
his  breast  for  any  who  chose  to  read,  even 
as  he  would  be  henceforth  in  all  his  years 
to  come  on  the  sunburnt,  wave -beaten  rock : 
the  eagle  of  the  mountains  fettered  to  a  stone 
in  the  sea. 

At   daybreak   her  mind  was  ma'de  up ; 


IN  MAREMMA.  45 

she  took  a  stout  staff  in  her  hand,  skuig  her 
wallet  about  her,  with  some  bread  in  it  and 
some  goat's  ham  cured  Savoy  fashion,  and 
went  out  towards  the  mountains. 

She  was  a  strong  woman,  though  old, 
and  she  walked  briskly.  The  pasture  lands 
and  marshes  were  desolate,  and  she  met 
scarce  anyone  ;  here  and  there  a  furze  cutter 
or  a  ploughman  with  his  oxen,  that  was  all. 
She  soon  quitted  the  sight  of  the  sea,  and 
bore  inland  by  the  course  of  the  Albegna 
river,  through  solitary  untracked  thickets, 
and  over  rough  rocky  ground. 

After  some  hours  slie  came  to  cross 
roads,  and  there  sat  down  on  a  stone,  and 
w^aited  for  the  pubUc  waggon  running  from 
Orbetello  to  Monte  Murano  to  come  by ; 
when  it  jolted  near  her,  its  miserable  horses 
straining  at  their  rope  harness,  she  stopped 
it,  and  got  into  it ;  it  lumbered  on  imder  a 
volley  of  blows  and  oaths  rained  on  the 
patient,  sinking  beasts. 

At  Monte  Murano  she  descended,  and 
was  forced  to  sleep ;  with  daybreak  she  left 
the  place,  and  thence  had  to  make  her  way 
as  best  she  might  up  to  what  had  been  the 
brigand's  favourite  lair,  although  he  had 
Qther3   in   the  fastnesses    of    the   Ciuiiuiau 


46  73^  MAREMMA. 


mountains,  which  he  frequented  when  it 
pleased  him  to  descend  upon  the  southward 
road  nearer  Eome,  where  more  than  once 
he  had  even  stopped  the  mail  train  itself  as 
it  had  rolled  over  the  marshes  and  beneath 
the  sombre  gloom  of  the  maritime  pines, 
and  had  swerved  off  the  line  as  it  encoun- 
tered the  timber  and  stones  that  Saturnino's 
men  had  placed  there  in  its  path. 

He  had  been  always  called  Saturnino  of 
the  Santa  Fiora,  though  his  range  had  ex- 
tended so  much  farther  than  these  peaks, 
and  towards  Santa  Fiora  she  made  her  way 
throuo-h  the  dense  underwood  and  luxuriant 
vegetation  that  here  cover  the  soil,  where 
the  roads  are  mere  mule  tracks,  often 
effaced,  and  the  amphitheatre  of  the  moun- 
tains enclose  a  solitude  and  a  silence  scarcely 
ever  broken  save  by  sound  of  sheep-bell,  or 
cry  of  bittern,  or  the  browsing  murmur  of 
the  teeth  of  wild  cattle  chewing  the  luscious 
grass. 

Here  on  the  wooded  cliffs  was  once 
Saturnia,  whose  giant  walls  still  remain, 
overgrown  with  laurestinus  and  mountain 
box  and  butcher's  broom,  and  in  the 
hovels  that  occupy  its  site,  and  take  its 
name,  where  Saturnino  forty-five  years  be- 


IX  MAREMMA.  47 


fore  had  seen  the  hght,  there  is  a  filthy  httle 
driiikiDg-house,  whose  only  customers  are 
the  shepherds  and  the  woodcutters  and  the 
muleteers. 

There  Mastarna,  as  the  hero  and  martyr  of 
the  soil,  was  being  lamented  by  a  knot  of  ill- 
looking  foresters  as  Joconda  passed  the  open 
door  by  which  they  were  sitting  together 
playing  at  dominoes.  Being  a  brave  woman, 
and  not  caring  for  their  ill  looks,  she 
gathered  from  them  what  direction  to  take 
so  as  to  reach  the  mountain  crest  without 
sinking  miserably  in  a  quagmire,  or  wander- 
ing till  dead  of  hunger  in  the  intricacy  of 
the  pathless  jungle. 

She  asked  for  the  Rocca  del  Giulio,  and 
they  pointed  it  to  her ;  far,  very  far  away, 
where  the  autumn  snows  lay  on  the  highest 
lines  of  the  hills.  She  took  her  staff  and 
wallet  and  set  out  again. 

'  You  cannot  reach  it  to-night,  mother,' 
the  men  said  to  her. 

She  said  to  them,  '  Very  well.  No  one 
will  hurt  me.  I  am  old  and  ugly,  and  I 
have  not  a  coin  to  steal.' 

They  laughed  and  asked  her  why  she 
went ;  she  told  them  '  to  get  a  child  to 
nuriiQ ; '  and  with  tlie  prudence  of  her  country 


48  IN  MAREMMA. 


appended  to  the  fact  a  fiction  of  a  daugliter 
wliose  infant  was  dead,  and  wlio  needed  one 
to  suckle. 

'A  little  lie  is  always  useful,'  thought 
Joconda,  though  she  was  not  a  false  or  a 
faithless  Avoman. 

Then  she  lost  sight  of  the  foaming, 
turbulent  Flora,  and  began  her  climb  to- 
w^ards  the  mountain  summits.  The  ways 
were  very  steep  and  very  long  ;  night  over- 
took her.  She  took  shelter  in  an  empty 
hut  of  a  shepherd,  and  ate  and  drank  out  of 
her  wallet,  and  slept  not  ill,  for  she  was 
tired  and  not  timorous. 

The    great    lonely   mountain-side,    with 
the  water  freshets  of  autumn  tearing  down 
it  to  swell  the  Flora  water,  was  about  her 
when   she  awoke.     She  could   not   see  the 
rock   she  wanted   above  her,  a  grey  speck 
under  the  snows.     She  was  stiff,  and  felt  as  if 
she  were  frozen  from  sleeping  out  of  her  bed 
on  the  damp  leaves ;  but  she  resumed  her 
upward  way.     It  was  again  noon  when  she 
passed   the   last  robur-oak   and  cork  trees 
and  came  up  amidst  wind- wasted  pines  and 
boulders  of  granite  and  slate,  tossed  about 
on  a  wild  mountain  scarp^  as  if  in  the  horse- 
play  of  giantSi 


IX  MAREMMA.  40 


She  saw  scarce  any  one  ;  tlie  scattered 
folk  of  tlie  hills  were  most  of  them  in  hiding, 
stricken  with  terror  at  tlie  seizure  of  Satur- 
nino,  with  whom  tliey  were  all  in  habits  of 
greater  or  lesser  complicity. 

One  old  man  was  met  with,  very  old 
and  bent.  He  was  looking  for  simples  in 
the  many  herbs  that  clothed  the  liillside. 
He  told  her  at  last  where  the  Eocca  del  Giuho 
was,  pointing,  as  he  spoke,  to  a  spot  far 
away  amidst  the  snow  that  had  fallen  on 
the  heights. 

'  That  was  Satm^nino's  nest,'  he  said. 
'  Poor  soul !  They  have  taken  him,  and 
killed  most  of  his  men.  He  never  did  me 
any  harm.' 

He  was  very  old,  and  not  curious  ;  being 
so,  he  let  her  go  on  upward  without  question. 

Here  the  snow  had  fallen  heavily.  It  had 
ceased  to  fall  now,  but  there  was  a  sharp  frost 
on  these  heights,  and  the  ground  was  white 
and  hard.  The  stunted  trees  looked  black. 
It  was  very  desolate.  The  clouds  were  low 
upon  the  mountain  side,  and  their  mists 
were  all  around  her.  She  could  see  the 
white  crests  of  the  Labbro  and  the  Santa 
Fiora  loom  close  on  her,  it  seemed,  in  the 
steel-hued  fog.    She  had  never  been  so  high 

VOL.  I.  E 


50  /A^  MARJSMMA; 


up  on  tlie  mountains  since  her  girlhood, 
sixty  and  more  years  before  in  the  alps 
about  the  feet  of  the  Becca  di  Nona.  The 
sight  of  the  great  cones  of  snow  so  near 
beside  her,  the  feeling  of  the  crisp  clear  air 
and  the  icy  freshness  of  it,  gave  her  a  strange 
sensation — the  sickness  of  nostalgia  coming 
on  her  in  old  age,  after  a  long  life  in  the 
swamps  and  on  the  shore. 

A  sudden  thirst  made  her  throat  and  her 
heart  ache  with  longing  for  her  old  home, 
set  on  a  granite  ledge  of  rock,  with  the 
valley  of  Cogne  stretching  below  it,  and  the 
white  summit  of  Mont  Blanc  in  sight  beyond 
the  gorge,  and  nearer  at  hand  the  peaks  and 
glaciers  of  the  Grand  Paradis,  her  old  home, 
with  its  girdle  of  deep  green  forest,  and  its 
ceaseless  sound  of  rushing  water,  and  its 
alpine  winds,  that  are  known  no  more  to  the 
dwellers  of  the  plains  than  what  the  condor 
of  the  Andes  beholds  in  its  flight  is  known 
to  the  hedge-sparrow  in  the  thorn-bush  by 
the  road. 

It  was  sixty  long  years  since  she  had 
felt  that  wind  upon  her  forehead,  and  heard 
that  rush  of  ice-fed  waters  as  they  leapt 
from  rock  to  rock  ;  since  she  had  hfted  her 
voice  in  the  jodel  of  the  hills,  and  rested 


IX  MAREMMA.  51 


her  eyes  on  that  fresh  flowering  grass,  those 
deep  cool  shadows  of  the  pines.  Yet  now 
and  then  it  all  came  back  upon  her  as  it  did 
now,  clear  as  a  dream  of  the  night,  and  then 
the  sea  would  fade  away,  and  the  sands 
recede,  and  the  misty  scorching  dust-grey 
shores  grow  dim  to  her,  and  her  eyes  would 
only  be  dry  because  she  had  grown  too  old 
to  weep.  And  when  she  slept,  it  was  of 
these  she  dreamed  almost  always ;  above 
all,  in  the  stifling  midnights  of  the  terrible 
canicular  heat,  when  the  air  was  like  steam, 
and  the  soil  was  like  brass,  and  there  was 
no  freshness  or  peace  in  the  darkness,  and 
with  itg  fall  no  dews. 

She  felt  for  the  brigand's  image  in  her 
bosom,  and  drew  it  out  and  looked  at  it ; 
then  walked  to  the  first  house  that  lay  in 
her  way. 

They  seemed  all  empty.  There  was  not 
a  sound,  except  the  soughing  of  wind  in  the 
tops  of  the  pines. 

She  called,  and  no  one  answered.  She 
shouted  again  and  again,  but  her  voice  died 


on  the  mountain  stillness  unanswered.  Then 
she  pushed  open  a  door  and  looked  inside. 
The  houses  were  little  more  than  stone 
huts,   and  they  were   all  deserted  ;  hastily 

E  2 


LI8KARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILUNOO 


52  IN  MABEMMA. 


deserted,  it  seemed  to  her ;  for  there  were 
things  strewn  about  them,  and  liere  and 
there  pools  of  blood,  and  broken  arms  upon 
the  frozen  snow.  She  could  have  guessed 
how  it  had  been,  even  had  she  known 
nothing  of  the  capture  of  Saturnino  ;  guessed 
that  there  had  been  a  struggle  here,  and  the 
w^omen  had  left  in  hurried  flight. 

*  How  shall  I  find  his  lamb  ?  '  she 
thought,  with  a  sigh  half  of  regret,  half  of 
relief;  and  she  stood  still  and  looked. 

The  few  people  who  had  dwelt  there  had 
fled,  that  w^as  plain  to  her ;  most  likely  out 
of  fear  of  the  soldiery. 

'  Poor  souls ! '  she  said,  and  crossed  her- 
self, seeing  the  scarcely  dried  blood  on  the 
stones. 

A  dog's  bark  startled  her. 

It  was  a  bark  of  anger  and  of  appeal 
both  in  one.  She  rose  and  w^ent  in  the 
direction  of  the  sound.  It  came  from  the 
last  of  the  stone  huts.  Slie  pushed  open  the 
door  as  she  had  done  that  of  the  other. 
A  great  dog,  snow-white,  stood  in  the  centre 
of  the  clay  floor  ;  under  his  body  was  a 
child  asleep. 

'  The  child  of  Serapia ! '  she  thought,  as 
she  looked    down  on   the    sleeping   inflmt. 


IN  MAREMMA, 


Serapia  had  been  but  a  name — a  legend — to 
the  dwellers  of  the  shore  and  ])lains. 

Wild  tales  were  always  told  of  how 
Saturnino  had  ravished  her  from  her  people  ; 
people  beggared  though  of  noble  blood, 
who  dwelt  on  a  wind-swept  spur  of  the 
Sabine  hills,  by  whom  she  was  cursed,  and 
looked  on  as  one  dead. 

A  beautiful,  ignorant,  mindless  thing  she 
had  ever  been  ;  foolish  and  passionate  from 
the  hour  that  she  had  been  borne  away,  a 
second  Proserpine,  to  the  night  of  oblivion, 
peril,  and  crime  in    whicli  her   brute-lover 
dwelt.     One  short  year  only  slie  had  been 
carried,  half  a  captive,  half  a  willing  mistress, 
to  that  topmost  haunt  of  tlie  hills  where  all 
that  Saturnino   knew   as    home   was  made. 
There  she  had  died  ;  some  said  of  fever,  some 
said  of  a  blow  from  Saturnino  ;  anyway  she 
had  died,  and  had  been  buried  where  the  tall 
stone  pines  rose  up  like  columns  of  a  temple 
against  the  marble  of  the  porches.      And 
her  child  was  here,  asleep  amidst  a  scene  of 
carnage  made  more  Iiorrible  by  the  dream- 
ing smile  of  a  baby's  rest. 

In  the  cabin  there  were  loose  coins, 
gold,  and  jewels,  dropped  and  stamped  on  as 
they  had  been  caught  up  in  the  haste  of 


54  /iV  MAREMMA. 

flight ;  a  rich  shawl  was  thrown  aside  iij^on 
the  beaten  earth  of  the  ground,  a  length  of 
gold  brocade  was  tossed  against  a  roiigh- 
hewn  table,  overturned  ;  close  to  the  child's 
bed  there  was  a  carved  ivory  toy  such  as 
are  made  in  India.  In  the  child's  hand  was 
a  dry  half-eaten  crust. 

Joconda  looked  neither  to  the  gold  nor 
stuffs.  Her  soul  was  sick  at  the  sight  of 
the  pools  of  blood  still  wet,  and  at  the  sight 
of  the  dream  in  o-  creature  who  was  left  a 
heritage  of  crime  and  woe, 

'  The  blood  of  Saturnino  ! '  she  thought ; 
it  seemed  to  her  that  it  must  be  as  a  stream  of 
lava  and  of  poison  in  the  veins  of  a  female 
child. 

'  This  must  be  the  child,'  said  Joconda 
to  herself,  and  stood  looking  ;  she  was 
afraid  of  the  white  Molossus  dog. 

The  child  was  two  years  of  age,  or  two 
and  a  half,  she  thought;  not  more.  It 
had  been  forsaken,  no  doubt,  when  the 
mistresses  and  wives  of  the  band  had  run  for 
their  lives  after  the  men's  struggle  with  the 
carabiniers. 

Joconda  stood  wavering,  on  account  of 
the  dog ;  at  length  she  spoke  to  him,  and  he 
looked  at  her.     Tlien  he  ceased  to  growl, 


IN  MAREMMA,  56 


and  smelt  lier.  Then,  apparently  satis- 
fied, he  let  her  d^a^\^  near  the  child,  who 
was  sleeping  :  a  lovely  creature,  half  naked, 
witli  long  black  lashes  lying  on  cheeks  like 
mountain  rose-leaves,  and  loose  thick  curls 
like  rings  of  amber. 

'  It  is  a  woman  child ;  so  much  the 
worse,'  said  Joconda,  looking  down  on  it. 

If  it  had  been  a  male,  it  would  have 
been  much  easier  for  her ;  a  boy  could  soon 
have  run  about  and  done  somethini]^  for  his 
daily  bread  in  the  boats,  or  with  the 
mules,  or  in  the  firewoods.  However,  she 
remembered  that,  be  it  what  it  would,  she 
had  promised  Mastarna.  She  looked  timo- 
rously at  the  dog,  and  raised  the  child 
without  waking  it  ;  he  looked  at  her  in 
return,  watchfully,  but  comprehending  that 
she  meant  it  no  injury.  She  saw  at  the 
baby's  throat  a  little  golden  image  ;  then 
she  wrapped  her  shawl  about  it,  and  said  to 
the  dog  '  Come.' 

For  the  dog  was  alone,  and  Joconda 
was  a  woman  of  hard  aspect  but  good  heart. 

The  dog  was  of  the  same  race  as 
Ulysses'  faitliful  friend,  perhaps  the  purest 
and  most  ancient  canine  race  of  all  in  the 
world,  and  one   of  the  boldest   and   most 


66  IN  MAREMMA. 


beautiful ;  he  was  fierce  and  powerful,  but 
full  of  sympathy  and  wisdom  ;  he  bent  his 
head,  sniffed  at  her  feet,  gazed  sorrowfully 
in  her  eyes,  put  his  nose  to  the  child's  cheek, 
theii  went  with  her  down  the  path  by  which 
she  had  climbed  to  what  had  been,  until 
the  night  before,  the  brigand's  home. 

She  began  to  descend  the  mountain,  but 
night  drew  nigh,  and  the  child,  who  still 
slept,  was  a  heavy  weight.  She  stopped  at 
the  first  cabin  she  came  to,  and  asked  for 
shelter.  The  charcoal-burners,  who  dwelt 
there,  knew  the  look  of  the  child  and  the 
dog,  and  would  not  take  her  in  ;  they  were 
afraid  Saturnino's  daughter  might  bring  them 
trouble  with  the  police.  Joconda  cursed 
them  heartily  for  cowards. 

She  made  her  way  with  great  fatigue, 
and  with  strong^  effort  manacled  to  reach  the 
inn  where  she  had  slept  the  first  night. 
Here  they  did  not  know  the  child  nor  the 
dog,  or  did  not  say  that  they  did. 

'  Ah  !  thou  hast  got  the  baby  for  thy 
step-daughter,'  was  all  the  woman  of  the 
house  said  to  her ;  and  Joconda  answered — 

'Ay  ;  but  it  has  ceased  to  suck  ;  that 
is  a  pity.' 

Long  before  this  the  child  had  wakened 


IN  MAREMMA.  57 


more  than  once,  and  had  cried  and  sobbed, 
and  become  very  tronblesome.  The  dog 
was  quiet  and  sad. 

They  gave  her  goat's  milk  and  black 
bread,  and  let  her  and  the  child  and  the 
dog  sleep  altogether  in  a  room  full  of  hay 
and  straw.  She  and  the  baby  slept  well ; 
the  dog  but  httle. 

The  following  morning  she  resumed  her 
journey,  and  returned  as  she  had  come, 
only  that  she  had  the  burden  of  the  infant 
and  the  companionship  of  the  animal. 

The  child  was  now  wakeful,  impatient, 
tyrannous ;  the  dog,  as  he  got  farther  and 
farther  from  his  old  home,  was  melancholy, 
and  footsore,  and  anxious. 

'  You  are  like  a  white  lion,'  she  said  to 
him,  and  named  him  Leone :  what  names 
either  he  or  the  child  had  borne  before  she 
could  not  tell. 

It  was  still  fresh,  fine  weather,  happily 
for  her,  for  she  had  to  walk  much,  and  it 
took  her  several  days  to  return  on  foot,  and 
the  diligence  only  ran  once  a  week,  and 
she  missed  it  at  Monte  Murano.  She  was 
an  old  woman,  and  she  became  very  weary. 

It  was  evening  once  more  when  she 
drew  nigh  her  own  village. 


68  IN  MAREMMA. 

The  pale  sands,  the  tufa  rocks,  the  back- 
ground of  marshes  and  stagnant  water 
looked  very  dreary  even  to  her  who  had 
been  used  to  them  all  her  life  ;  there  was  a 
sickly  haze  upon  the  sea,  and  a  fog  upon  the 
horizon. 

Two  or  three  of  her  neighbours,  wasted 
and  wan-looking  folks,  gave  her  good 
evening,  and  glanced  at  the  child  and  the  dog. 

'  Is  that  child  of  thy  kin,  mother.^  '  they 
asked  curiously. 

'  Nay  ;  I  have  no  kin  here.  It  is  a 
dead  friend's  child,'  she  answered  them 
wearily,  for  she  was  very  tired. 

'  And  the  dog  ?  ' 

'  He  was  my  dead  friend's  dog ;  he  fol- 
lowed me.     I  could  not  turn  him  adrift.' 

'  They  will  be  hungry  mouths,  motlier?  ' 

'  Ay ;  but  I  will  not  ask  you  to  feed 
them.' 

Then  they  laughed  and  stared  and  won- 
dered, but  dared  not  ask  more,  and  let 
her  be. 

She  made  her  way  to  her  own  house, 
and  drew  the  great  key  from  her  girdle, 
and  unlocked  her  door  and  opeued  it,  and 
entered,  leading  the  child  by  the  hand,  and 
followed  by  the  dog. 


IN  MAREMMA.  69 

It  was  cold  and  dark  and  cheerless. 
The  child  was  awed,  and  the  dog  dulled,  hj 
the  stillness  and  solitude,  the  greyness  and 
gloom.  The  sound  of  the  sea  breaking  on  the 
sands  below  was  more  mournful  than  perfect 
silence. 

Joconda  kneeled  down  by  the  crucifix 
that  \\\\\\^  on  the  wall  and  made  the  little 
limbs  of  the  baby  kneel  too. 

'  See  me,  good  saints,  and  bear  ye  testi- 
mony that  I  have  kept  my  word.  Be  this 
3'oung  thing  blessing  or  curse,  I  have  kept 
my  word.     Be  ye  good  to  us  both.' 

Then  she  rose  and  fetched  from  her 
closets  water  and  milk,  salted  fish  and  bread, 
and  broke  her  fast,  and  gave  food  and  drink 
to  both  the  child  and  the  beast. 

When  she  went  to  rest,  the  rosy  and 
fresh-washed  warmth  of  the  child  was  on 
her  roui^h  couch,  and  the  white  Molossus  was 
stretched  before  her  door.  She  could  not 
tell  whether  she  were  sorry  or  content.  She 
Avas  at  least  no  longer  alone. 

'  But  the  blood  of  Saturnino  ?  '  she  said 
doubtfully  to  herself.  Any  way,  she  had  kept 
her  word. 

As  she  had  stimibled  down  along  the 
stony  mountain  road,  tlie  weight  of  the  two- 


60  IN  MAREMMA. 


year-old  child  heavy  on  her  shoulder,  she, 
being  a  rehgious  woman,  had  bethought  her 
that  surely  it  had  never  been  baptised,  and 
pondered  on  what  holy  name  to  give  to  this 
offspring  of  sinners. 

She  knew  her  calendar  by  heart,  and 
called  to  mind  that  this  autumnal  day,  with 
the  deep  white  snow  on  the  heights,  and  the 
red  and  gold  ash-foliage  in  the  woods,  was  the 
twenty-ninth  of  October,  the  day  dedicated 
by  the  Latin  Church  to  that  sad  and  little 
remembered  eastern  saint,  Mary  the  Penitent. 

Joconda  was  not  a  book-learned  woman. 
She   could  spell    out  her  missal,  that   was 
all ;  but  she  vaguely  remembered  that  Santa 
Maria  Penitente  had  had  the  grace  of  heaven 
given  her  after  sorrow  and  shame,  and  that  in 
her  story  there  was  a  dragon  who  devoured 
a  dove,  and  out  of  the  body  of  the  monster 
the  beautiful  Avhite  bird  had  come  forth  un- 
harmed and  spread  its  wings,  and  shot  up- 
ward to  the  Sim.    And  for  sure  this  is  a  dove 
come  forth  from  a  dragon,  she  had  said  to 
herself,  looking  at  the  sleeping  child,  and  so 
had  resolved  that  when  she  should  get  down 
back  to  her  own  little  town,  the  child  should 
be  received  into  the  Church  by  the  name  of 
Maria  Penitent^  and  no  other, 


CHAPTEE   III. 


;ANTA  TAESILLA  was  a  dreary 
place  midway  between  Telamone 
and  Orbetello,  lying  low  upon  a 
shore  half  sand,  half  swamp,  with 
aloes  and  sea  fennel  and  the  prickly  samphire 
for  all  its  vegetation,  and  blocks  of  stone 
and  marble  strewn  about,  some  Eoman, 
some  Etruscan.  There  was  beauty  indeed 
on  its  horizon,  in  the  luminous  air  whei'e 
the  distant  snow-peaks  of  Corsica  and  the 
near  crags  of  iron-bound  Elba  could  be 
seen,  with  far  Capraja  and  Monte  Cristo, 
and  many  another  island  nameless  to  the 
world.  But  to  see  these  it  was  needful  to 
go  a  good  way  out  upon  the  open  water  ; 
from  the  little  crooked  land-locked  bay  there 
was  little  to  be  discerned  save  the  low  pale 
coast  and  low  red  tufa  hills  that  locked  in 


C2  IN  MABEMMA. 


the  harbour,  where  the  waters  were  shallow, 
turgid,  almost  stagnant,  choked  with  weed 
and  sand,  although,  beyond,  the  Ligurian 
sea,  blue  as  turquoise  in  some  lights,  blue 
as  lapis  lazuli  at  others,  sometimes  rose  in 
fretted  tm'bulence,  and  sometimes  rolled  in 
a.  sullen  swell. 

A  little  way  inland  the  moors  began ; 
in  grand  level  stretches  of  gorse  and  brush- 
wood, covering  many  a  buried  tomb,  and 
buried  town,  with  the  lentiscus  and  the 
rosemary  weaving  above  them.  Nigh  at 
hand  were  dark  lines  of  pine  forests,  al- 
thous^h  their  balsamic  scent  and  resinous 
breath  could  not  purify  the  miasma  of  the 
coast,  and  eastward  were  the  still  wild  and 
scarce-trodden  v/oodlands,  stretching  away 
to  the  mountain-ranges  where  the  robber 
had  made  his  lair.  But  wood  and  hill  were 
all  too  far  away  to  alter  the  weary  monotony 
of  the  scene  at  Santa  Tarsilla.  It  seemed 
all  shore — pale  barren  shore ;  and  shallow 
sea — sea  which  yet  drowned  so  many  that 
it  seemed  to  the  people  like  a  graveyard. 

On  a  narrow  tongue  of  sandy  land  there 
was  a  little  fort ;  sickly  soldiers  came  there 
and  guards  to  watch  the  coast.  There  was 
also  a  furnace-house  to  make  the  salt  that  was 


IX  MAJiiilMMA.  GiJ 


raked  upon  the  beach  ;  but  smoke  seklom 
issued  from  its  chimney,  though  wood  was 
to  be  had  for  the  getting,  and  salt  for 
the  taking  of  it.  Tlie  people  had  little 
strength  and  less  spirit.  In  winter  time 
their  lives  were  very  hard,  and  with  the 
summer  came  the  pestilence,  and  then  ague 
and  fever  fed  on  tliem  and  drained  their 
bodies,  and  left  them  scanty  force  to  do  more 
than  sit  in  tlie  shade  of  their  boats  or  their 
walls  and  push  out  for  moonlit  fishing  when 
night  fell.  It  was  the  strong  fellows  who 
came  down  from  the  mountains  of  Pistoija 
and  the  hills  of  Lucca  that  did  their  work, 
and  reaped  the  harvest  on  moor  and  in 
forest  when  autumn  came  round. 

Tlie  people  of  tlie  shore  were  nearly  all 
dropsical,  and  the  few  soldiers  and  coast- 
guardsmen  sent  on  duty  along  the  shores 
suffered  more  than  tlie  native  population  at 
most  times.  But  the  Pistoiese  and  the  Luc- 
chese  and  the  armies  of  winter-workers  did 
not  come  into  Santa  Tarsilla  itself  except  at 
rare  odd  times,  wlien  some  of  them  broudit, 
from  the  interior,  grain  or  timber  or  charcoal 
to  load  the  little  coasters  that  were  tlie  only 
vessels  insignificant  enough  to  deign  to  re- 
member this  secluded  little  l)ay;  and  even  to 


6i  IN  MAREMMA, 

tliese  the  port  dues  were  so  heavy  as  to  be 
well  nigh  ruinous,  and  the  skippers,  poor 
men  of  Livorno  and  Genoa  for  the  most  part, 
were  scarcely  able  to  scrape  a  profit  from 
their  cargoes.  The  port  dues  and  shipping 
taxes  have  crippled  and  nearly  destroyed  all 
the  commerce  of  the  minor  merchantmen  of 
Italy,  and  they  have  struck  a  death-blow 
to  the  humble  industries  of  the  little  Marem- 
mano  sea-towns. 

Before  the  independence,  of  which  the 
Maremma  heard  much  but  understood  little, 
Santa  Tarsilla  had  been  very  feeble,  but 
able  to  get  its  own  living ;  since  then 
it  had  become  paralysed,  and  was  perishing 
off  the  face  of  the  earth. 

The  waters  teemed  with  fish ;  only  look- 
ing down  from  the  side  of  a  boat  you  could 
see  fish,  by  the  thousand,  gleaming  like  gold 
and  silver  in  those  bright  transparent  depths, 
with  the  feathery  weeds,  and  the  branches 
of  coral.  There  was  always  fish  indeed ; 
but  fish,  though  it  will  serve  to  fill  your 
own  mouth,  and  the  mouths  of  your  chil- 
dren, is  of  very  little  further  use  unless  there 
be  buyers  for  it.  The  waters  teemed,  the 
nets  ran  over,  but  as  often  as  not  the  living- 
spoils  of   the  sea  were  thrown  down   and 


IN  MAREMMA.  65 


left  to  rot  in  noisome  heaps  upon  the  sands, 
because  there  was  no  one  to  purchase  tliem 
and  no  means  to  carry  them  to  otlier  towns. 
Now  and  then  they  took  tlie  fish  on  mules  to 
Grosseto  or  other  places  on  the  line  of  rail, 
but  there  was  little  sale  for  it ;  and  before 
it  could  be  passed  through  the  gates  of 
any  town  there  was  so  heavy  a  tax  on  it 
that  it  paid  no  one  to  load  a  felucca's  deck 
or  a  beast's  panniers  with  so  perishable  a 
thing. 

So  Santa  Tarsilla  was  sad  and  solitary 
always,  and  usually  sickly  enough  ;  there  was 
never  any  mirth  or  joviality  in  it ;  the  young 
men  grew  impatient  of  its  loneliness  and 
povert}^  and  always  went  away  as  soon  as 
they  readied  years  enough  to  be  their  own 
masters.  There  were  only  a  few  old  men, 
and  some  women  and  children ;  all  the 
stronger  folk  who  had  been  born  in  it  were 
elsewhere,  coral  fishing  in  the  south,  doing 
forest  work  on  the  hills,  or  gone  to  live  at 
Follonica  wdiere  the  foundries  are. 

Only  the  feeble,  the  old,  and  the  very 
poor  stayed  in  the  little  bay  that  had  once 
been  a  great  port  for  the  galleys  of  Porsenna, 
as  Joconda  did,  Avho  had  neither  means  nor 
strength  to  move  away  to  a  cooler  laud. 

VOL.  I.  Y 


66  /iV  MAREMMA. 


An  almost  absolute  silence  reigned  there, 
only  broken  by  the  booming  of  milUons  of 
mosquitoes,  and  the  tinkling  now  and  then  of 
the  one  feeble  church  bell.  The  many  pedlars 
that  travel  through  Maremma  did  not  very 
often  aive  an  hour  to  Santa  Tarsilla,  unless 
their  way  lay  most  directly  over  the  Tombolo 
or  sandy  shore.  Now  and  then  one  came 
with  needles  and  pins,  tapes  and  ker- 
chiefs, and  a  hundred  other  small  articles 
of  merchandise,  packed  in  the  wooden  or 
leathern  case  upon  his  back  ;  and  when  he 
did  come,  there  was  much  gossip  but  few 
pence  for  him,  for  every  one  was  poor  in  the 
forlorn  forgotten  town,  which  would  have 
been  no  more  than  a  village  had  it  not  been 
for  its  coasto^uard  and  its  church. 

By  June,  when  the  harvest  was  reaped, 
the  labourers  fled ;  a  few  fisher-folk  re- 
mained, sallow  and  lean  with  weakness,  or 
swollen  with  the  dropsy  common  to  the  coast. 
Its  very  priests  w^ere  sent  to  Santa  Tarsilla  as 
a  penitence  ;  and  its  military  were  stationed 
as  a  chastisement  ;  of  late  years,  even  the 
little  garrison  of  soldiers  had  been  withdrawn 
by  the  Government,  and  there  were  none 
nearer  than  Orbetello.  The  httle  fort  was 
falling  to  decay,  and  even  the  coastguards- 


IN  MAREMMA,  67 


men  dwelt  not  at  Santa  Tarsilla  itself,  but  in 
a  tower  on  the  coast  a  mile  away. 

JSl'othing  could  be  sadder  than  this  place, 
or  seem  more  forgotten  of  God  and  man. 

Joconda  sometimes,  sitting  at  her  door  in 
the  heavy  parching  summer  heats,  thought 
with  a  dull  agony  of  reuiembrance  of  the 
mountain  home  of  her  birth. 

In  these  unhealthy  places  of  Maremma, 
where  no  one  ever  stays  who  can  get  away, 
and  nearly  all  who  remain  are  ague-stricken 
and  fever-w^orn,  young  children  not  sel- 
dom thrive  well  enough.  The  poisoned  air, 
so  hot,  so  damp,  so  laden  with  seeds  '  of 
disease,  seems  to  have  mercy  sometimes  on 
these  young  open  lips,  and  bare,  soft,  un- 
certain limbs,  and  in  six  years'  time  from 
the  capture  of  the  brigand  of  Santa  Flora, 
there  was  the  lithe  figure  of  a  beautiful 
child,  bright  as  a  rose,  erect  as  a  palm,  on 
the  pallid  sands  under  the  sultry  skies. 

This  child  that  was  Saturnino's  throve, 
and  grew  without  ailment,  without  accident, 
without  a  flaw  anywhere,  in  feature,  or  limb, 
or  body. 

When  Joconda  had  come  down  tlie  hills 
with  the  weiglit  of  Saturnino's  legacy  in  her 
arms,  she  had  pondered  long  and  anxiously 

r  2 


68  IN  MAREMMA. 


as  to  whether  she  would  tell  the  people  of 
Santa  Tarsilla  that  it  was  the  daughter  of 
their  hero  whom  she  was  about  to  take 
beneath  her  roof.  She  had  turned  the  matter 
over  long  and  anxiously  in  her  thoughts,  as 
the  public  waggon  had  rumbled  on  its  way- 
down  the  long  stony  roads,  and  at  length  had 
decided  with  herself  not  to  let  them  knoAV 
it.  Joconda  was  a  woman  more  truthful 
than  the  rest ;  that  is  to  say,  she  saw  no 
harm  whatever  in  an  untruth  if  it  were 
necessary  and  injured  nobody,  a  distinction 
that  in  Italy  is  rarely  drawn ;  but  she  did 
not  think  a  lie  the  natural  answer  to,  and 
lecritimate  offspring  of,  a  question,  as  most  of 
her  neighbours  did,  and  she  preferred  to  tell 
the  simple  truth  when  she  could,  which  is 
esteemed  in  the  country  generally  as  but 
poor  dull  work,  showing  great  lack  of  in- 
vention in  whosoever  is  content  with  it. 

At  last,  as  she  had  lain  the  night 
through  wide  awake,  disturbed  by  the  pre- 
sence and  the  thought  of  Saturnino's  off- 
spring, she  had  resolved  that  it  would  be 
best  not  to  tell  the  truth  here.  The  people 
would  make  an  idol  of  their  hero's  offspring, 
and  the  child,  as  she  grew  older,  would  be 
res^tless  and  perturbed  if  she  heard  that  her 


I^'  MAREMMA.  69 

fatlier  had  been  sent  by  his  judges  to  pass 
his  life  as  a  galley-slave  on  Gorgona. 

Joconda  feared  no  scorn  and  unkindness 
on  the  score  of  her  birtli  for  the  child,  if 
that  birth  were  known ;  on  the  contrary, 
she  feared  the  vanity  and  the  evil  passions 
that,  with  the  knowledge  of  the  blood  of 
the  Mastarna  in  her  veins,  might  by  public 
sentiment  be  engendered  in  her. 

She  would  be  the  child  of  a  hero,  almost 
of  a  martyr,  in  the  esteem  of  Maremma. 
She  would  hear  no  account  made  of  his 
crimes ;  she  would  only  hear  of  his  valour ; 
and  if  she  lived  she  would  grow  up  to  think 
of  her  father  as  a  sufferer  by  the  law's  in- 
justice. 

To  the  cooler,  sturdier,  northern  sense 
of  ricrht  and  wroncr  which  abode  in  the 
mountain-born  spirit  of  the  woman  of  Savoy, 
this  prospect  carried  a  fatal  future  to  give 
to  any  child ;  and  she  resolved  within  her- 
self to  keep  the  secret  of  the  baby's  paternity 
from  all,  save,  of  course,  her  confessor.  To 
him  she  told  the  truth. 

To  the  rest  of  the  shore  people  she  said 
merely  that  it  was  a  friend's  child  come  from 
over  the  other  side  of  Monte  Labbro,  and 
she,  being  a  close  and  resolute  woman,  was 


70  IN  MAREMMA. 

impenetrable  to  the  curiosity  of  her  neigh- 
bours. 

They  were  not  very  curious  either. 

A  child  was  no  rare  treasure,  and  there 
was  nothing  strange  in  a  lone  one  being 
placed  with  a  lone  woman  who  was  known 
to  have  a  little  money  secured  and  hidden 
somewhere.  Plenty  of  people  along  the 
coast  would  have  been  willing  and  glad  to 
let  Joconda  adopt  their  children,  would  she 
have  taken  them.  So  witliout  more  comment 
or  inquiry  the  child  and  the  dog  were  domi- 
ciled at  the  old  stone  house  by  the  pier  in 
Santa  Tarsilla,  and  there  grew  and  throve, 
as  they  best  might,  in  an  air  that  to  many 
was  death. 

Joconda's  first  care  was  to  have  her 
friend  and  director,  the  priest,  baptise  the 
infant,  and  wash  away  in  holy  water  the  sins 
of  its  fathers  from  its  soul.  She  knew  not 
what  it  had  ever  been  called,  or  if  it  had 
ever  been  called  anything,  but  the  name  of 
the  saint  on  whose  day  she  had  found  it,  she 
gave  to  it,  as  on  the  mountain  side  she  had 
resolved  to  do.  By  the  sad  recluse  of  Syria 
the  little  large-eyed  rose-cheeked  child  of 
Saturnino  and  Serapia  was  named,  and 
Joconda  saw   a   storm-swallow   fly   beyond 


m  MAEEMMA.  71 


the  grated  casement  of  the  chiircli,  and  sail 
to  herself  that  it  was  a  dove.  She  was  not 
a  superstitious  woman,  but  still,  if  such 
things  once  had  been,  why  not  again  ? 

'  She  is  a  love  child  ?  '  said  the  sacristan, 
as  he  gave  her  back  to  Joconda's  arms, 
weighted  henceforward  with  the  name  of 
the  Syrian  Magdalene.  '  A  child  of  crime,' 
said  Joconda ;  for  she  had  not  the  indul- 
gence to  the  sins  of  Saturnino  Mastarna  that 
the  Maremma  had.  She  was  a  northern 
woman. 

When  the  old  priest  died  a  dozen  years 
later  on,  Joconda  did  not  tell  his  successor 
of  the  child's  parentage. 

'  They  are  good  as  good  can  be,  the  holy 
men,'  she  said  to  herself, '  and  of  com^se  they 
never  tell  anything  out  of  confessional — no 
— but  still,  when  their  housekeeper  gets  gos- 
siping over  a  nice  bit  of  fried  liver,  or  their 
cappellano  comes  in  with  some  new  wine, 
they  are  but  human,  and  they  may  mix  up 
a  little  that  they  hear  in  the  street  with 
what  they  hear  m  the  chapel.  Why  not  ? 
A  man  must  talk,  even  when  he  is  a  holy 
one  ;  that  stands  to  reason.' 

So  she,  who  did  not  feel  the  necessity  to 
talk,  kept  her  own  counsel. 


m  MAREMMA. 


She  said  to  herself  that  it  would  be 
better  the  child  should  never  have  known 
that  her  father  dwelt  on  that  stony  face  of 
Medusa.  What  good  could  it  do  ?  As  the 
child  would  grow  older  tlie  thought  would 
torment  and  fester  in  her,  and  lead  her  to 
evil,  so  she  thought ;  and  being  a  woman 
with  a  strong  power  of  silence,  the  silence 
of  one  who  has  long  lived  alone  with  God, 
she  never  breathed  the  secret  to  any  living 
soul. 

Slowly  the  memory  of  Saturnino  w^ould 
die  away,  she  knew,  when  he  should  be  no 
more  a  living  wonder  on  the  hills,  to  feed 
their  fancies  with  fresh  legends  of  violence 
and  romance.  Saturnino  was  caged  upon 
that  isle  whose  strange  shape  lies  on  the  blue 
waves,  carved  like  a  woman's  head,  with  hair 
out-floating  on  the  deep,  and  blank  eyes 
staring  up  at  Heaven.  Costa  has  painted  it 
so,  and  its  name  of  Gorgon  is  old  as  the 
rocks  are  old. 

There,  galley-slaves  (keeping  their  old 
name  also)  are  mewed  in  a  bitter  company, 
and  every  now  and  then  one  escapes,  and 
most  likely  is  drowned,  or  shot,  as  he 
struggles  in  the  waves;  and  every  now  and 
then  strangers,  curious  and  indifferent,  come 


IN  MAREMMA. 


over  the  water  to  see  these  caged  gallows- 
birds,  and  stare  at  them  blankly. 

There  are  Italian  children  who  look  as 
though  they  had  stepped  down  from  a  pre- 
della  or  a  tryptich  ;  they  are  like  the  singing 
children  of  Angelico,  the  light-bearing  angels 
of  Filippino,  the  pages  of  Vittorio  Carpaccio, 
the  winged  boys  of  the  Siennese  masters. 
The  old  type  is  there  still  in  all  its  purity  ; 
the  oval  face,  the  level  brows,  the  curling 
hair,  the  spiritual  eyes,  the  roselike,  smiling, 
yet  serious  mouth  which  the  painters  of  those 
happier  times  saw  around  them  in  the  streets 
and  in  the  fields. 

There  are  so  many  Italian  children  still, 
lookim?  on  whom  one  thinks  at  once  of  dim 
rich  altars,  of  gold-starred  vaulted  niches, 
of  lunettes  glowing  in  the  dusk  like  jewels, 
of  vaulted  roofs  that  are  borne  up  by  the 
wings  of  sculptured  angels. 

This  child,  born  from  a  mountain  robber 
and  named  from  the  anointed  penitent,  was 
like  one  of  these  children  who,  in  the  works 
of  the  early  masters,  stand  with  chalice,  or 
lyre,  or  dove  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  about  the 
feet  of  martyrs  or  around  the  throne  of  Mary. 
Only  in  the  eyes  of  this  creature,  who  was 
called  a  penitent  ere  she  had  sinned  any  sin, 


74  IN  MAIIEMMA. 


there  was  a  rebellious  light,  and  in  the  arched 
mouth  there  was  a  resolute  scorn  that  the 
masters  did  not  put  into  their  young  servi- 
tors of  God. 

In  feature  she  was  strangely  like  the 
Ano-el  of  Annunciation  of  Carlo  Dolce.  It 
is  the  mode  nowadays  to  deride  Carlo  Dolce, 
as  it  is  the  mode  to  deride  melody  in  music ; 
but  let  them  chatter  as  they  will,  none  can 
take  away  the  lovely  living  light  on  his 
Gesu's  infant  face,  nor  deny  the  exquisite 
beauty  of  that  angel  who  has  all  the  yearn- 
ing of  humanity  and  all  the  grandeur  of 
heaven  in  that  perfect  face  which  bends 
beneath  its  cloud  of  nimbus'd  hair. 

I  pity  those  who  can  look  unmoved  on 
that  angel  where  the  painting  hangs  in  the 
forsaken  bed-chamber  of  the  Pitti,  whilst, 
beyond,  there  are  the  sweet  still  sunshine  and 
the  sounds  of  the  falhng  waters  of  the 
gardens.  Who  can  do  so,  may  have  the 
jargon  of  art  on  his  tongue  ;  he  has  not  its 
secret  in  his  soul.  I  would  almost  give  up 
even  the  divine  visions  of  Eaffaelle  to  have 
that  herald. of  Christ  for  ever  before  my 
eyes. 

There   was  a  bad   feeble   copy  of  this 
seraphic  thing  in  the  Church  of  Santa  Tar- 


ly  MAREMMA, 


silk,  but  a  copy  of  Carlo  Dolce's  own  time, 
and  therefore  one  made  with  reverence  and 
tenderness ;  and  Joconda  would  look  at  it 
where  it  hung  above  a  side  altar,  and  "would 
think  to  herself,  '  If  it  were  not  profane, 
how  like  the  child  of  Saturnino  ! ' 

This  likeness  grew  more  and  more 
strongly  visible  as  she  grew^  up  to  girlhood, 
and  when  her  hair  blew  in  the  sea- wind  of 
autumn,  and  the  sun  found  the  gold  in  its 
bronze,  then  had  she  an  aureole  too,  and 
she  had  the  light,  the  ^strength,  the  power, 
the  mystery  that  are  in  Carlo's  angel's 
face. 

'Almost  one  looks  to  see  wings  spread 
from  your  shoulders  ! '  said  old  Andreino  to 
her,  meaning  only  that  she  was  like  the  sea- 
swallow  in  her  swiftness  and  her  faith  in  the 
sea ;  but  Joconda,  hearing  him,  thought, 
'  Have  you  too  seen  that  likeness  in  her  to 
Carlo's  angel  ? ' 

But  he  had  not ;  his  eyes  were  always 
on  the  fish  and  the  nets. 

Fed  on  black  bread  and  dried  fish,  with 
rarely  anything  else,  for  milk  there  was 
none,  and  fruit  there  was  none,  and  meat 
was  ever  scarce,  except  when  a  lamb  or  kid 
•was   killed    from   some    shepherd's   passing 


76  IN  MAREMMA. 


flock,  she  grew  erect,  strong,  bold,  bright, 
handsome ;  with  a  clear,  colourless  skin  ;  and 
brown,  lustrous,  astonished  eyes,  and  bright 
bronze-hued  hair  that  Joconda  brushed  back 
from  her  brow  in  rippling  masses,  and  cut 
short  at  the  throat. 

In  summer  she  was  clothed  in  the  grey 
homespun  linen  that  Joconda  made,  and  in 
winter  she  was  clad  in  blue  or  white 
woollen  stuff  instead ;  both  short,  straight 
little  garments,  very  like  in  form  to  those 
of  the  Florentine  choristers  of  Luca  della 
Eobbia. 

In  all  weathers  it  was  her  delioht  to  cast 
this  off,  and  plunge  into  the  sea  and  float 
there,  indifferent  to  wind  or  sun ;  and  this 
passion  for  the  water  got  for  her  in  her 
fourth  year  a  popular  name  in  Santa  Tar- 
silla,  which  quite  displaced  and  effaced  the 
saintly  one  she  had  been  baptised  by  ;  she 
was  always  called  by  the  people — the  few 
sickly  suffering  people,  to  whom  the  sea  was 
but  a  breeding  bed  for  fish — the  velia,  or 
sea-gull,  that  larus  mariniis,  with  plumage 
white  as  his  native  snows,  Avhich  came  from 
the  northern  ocean  as  soon  as  the  north 
wind  blew. 

'  C'e  una  velia  I '  an  old  man  had  said 


IX  MAREMMA.  77 


once,  seeing  the  child  in  the  sea  on  a  stormy 
day,  when  she  looked  no  bigger  than  a  sea- 
bird  on  the  crest  of  foam  ;  and  from  that 
time  she  was  known  by  that  word  chiefly, 
and  also  as  the  Musoncella. 

'  Mnsoncella ! '  the  other  children  yelled 
after  her ;  for  in  the  sonors  that  are  sunjr  in 
the  Maremma,  round  the  charcoal  burner's 
fires  in  the  forest,  and  on  the  decks  of  the 
fishing  feluccas  on  the  sea,  and  behind  the 
driven  buffaloes  in  the  reedy  swampy  plains, 
the  girl  that  turns  her  face  away  is  always 
twitted  with  this  epithet. 

Far  it  muso  is  to  be  scornful  of,  and 
sullen  to,  your  kind  :  to  have  the  black  dog 
on  your  back  as  northerns  phrase  it. 

It  troubled  Joconda  to  have  that  good 
name  of  Maria  Penitente  so  utterly  put 
aside  and  abandoned.  It  seemed  as  if  tlie 
saints  rejected  the  child  of  Saturnino,  she 
thought.  But  when  a  popular  tide  of  feeling 
rises  high,  no  one  can  change  it,  even  when  it 
only  sets  toward  a  trick  of  speech  in  a 
fishing  village,  and  Vclia  or  Musoncella,  tlie 
child  was  called  by  one  and  all,  even  by 
Joconda,  who  could  not  get  out  of  the  con- 
tagion of  the  nicknames. 

She    would    not  play  witli  others ;    she 


78  liV  MAREMMA. 


played  with  tlie  sails,  Avitli  the  surf,  with  the 
ciystals  of  the  salt,  with  anything  rather 
than  with  the  children,  who,  compared  with 
her,  were  very  timid,  and  were  afraid  of  her, 
they  could  not  have  well  told  why,  except 
that  once,  when  one  of  them,  twice  her  age, 
had  worried  Leone,  she  had  darted  into  the 
hut  and  rushed  out  of  it  with  a  burning 
brand,  which  she  would  have  hurled  into 
the  face  of  the  boy  who  had  liurt  the  dog 
if  the  women  had  not  flung  themselves  on 
her. 

When  Joconda,  wlio  was  absent  that 
day,  returned  and  heard,  she  trembled  again. 
'  She  is  of  Saturnino's  blood,'  she  thought 
with  fear.  She  was  herself  so  old ;  she  felt 
unequal  to  the  task  of  training  this  lion-cub 
to  lie  down  amidst  the  folded  lambs. 

The  child  certainly  was  not  tender,  and 
could  be  very  fierce. 

She  liked  best  to  be  alone  and  to  be 
always  in  movement ;  she  never  cared  to  be 
still,  except  in  the  church  when  there  w^as  a 
requiem  or  a  choral  mass,  and  the  sounds 
went-  floating  away  into  the  dark  dimly  lit 
place  and  mingled  with  the  sounds  of  the 
seas  and  the  winds  without.  Then  she  w^ould 
sit  motionless,  and  sometimes  her  voice  would 


IN  MAREMMA.  79 


come  out  of  lier  and  rise  far  above  lier  ken 
and  hover  in  the  air  like  a  bird,  and  then  the 
people  would  hold  their  breath  to  listen  and 
mutter  to  one  another,  '  there  must  be  a 
saint  that  thinks  about  her  after  all.' 

For  herself,  she  did  not  want  any  saint. 
The  religion  of  Santa  Tarsilla  went  past  her  ; 
it  never  reached  her,  still  less  did  it  ever 
enter  into  her.  They  had  taught  her  the 
usual  formula,  and  she  had  had  the  2:)riestly 
benison  on  her  dusky  head  like  other 
children  ;  but  it  all  went  by  her  as  the 
wind  did ;  it  never  took  hold  upon  her. 
'  And  yet  Saturnino  was  a  true  believer,'  said 
the  good  Priore  of  Santa  Tarsilla;  to  whom 
alone  Joconda  had  told  the  truth.  Yes,  the 
murderer  and  robber  had  believed  devoutly, 
and  had  been  a  true  Christian,  so  far  as  faith 
and  fear  could  make  him  so,  but  this  child 
was  a  heathen. 

'  I  do  not  care  for  them  ; '  that  was  all 
she  answered  to  the  priest  when  he  strove  to 
make  her  love  Christ  and  the  saints. 

She  cared  more  for  a  fish  with  jewel-like 
eyes,  when  she  could  steal  it  away  from  the 
overflowing  net,  and  let  it  glide  back  into  the 
sea,  and  watch  its  fins  stir,  and  its  languid  life 
(luicken,  till  with  a  rush  and  a  dajfh  it  vanished 


80  IN  MAREMMA. 

into  the  lustrous  silent  depths  where  it  had 
its  being. 

The  child's  desire  to  set  all  things  free 
gave  often  a  sharp  pang  to  Joconda's 
heart. 

'  What  would  she  say  if  she  knew  of 
her  father  on  those  rocks  up  yonder  ?  '  she 
would  mutter  now  and  then  to  the  Priore, 
who  would  answer :  '  There  is  no  reason 
that  she  should  ever  know  of  him.  It 
could  do  no  good.  She  would  think  him 
a  hero,  as  Maremma  has  done.' 

'  She  would  try  to  set  him  free,  too,  if  she 
swam  all  night  and  all  day  to  reach  him,' 
said  Joconda. 

And  as  she  grew  older,  and  age  with  its 
many  infirmities  made  her  weaker  both  in 
brain  and  body,  she  began  to  be  afraid,  ner- 
vously afraid — calm,  strong  woman  though 
she  was — that  anyone  or  anything  should 
ever  tell  the  child  of  that  galley-slave  at 
Gorgon  a. 

No  one  did,  and  the  child  but  rarely  won- 
dered whence  she  came ;  she  took  existence 
as  a  matter  of  course,  like  all  ignorant  crea- 
tures ;  it  was  no  stranger  that  she  should  be 
alive  than  that  the  fish  should  be  so  in  the 
water  and  the    birds  in  the  air.      Culture 


IN  MAREMMA.  81 


alone  sets  before  the  baffled  brain  the  cruel 
problem  :  idty  are  ice  ? 

Musa,  as  she  was  now  oftenest  called, 
was  absolutely  ignorant.  But  ignorance  is 
not  always  stupidity  ;  and  she  was  full  of 
a  restless,  though  dormant,  intelligence 
which  was  always  groping  about  blindly 
for  knowledo'e.  Of  the  arts  she  knew 
nothing,  not  so  much  as  their  names,  but  she 
had  an  instinct  towards  the  love  of  them  ; 
the  lore  of  books  w^as  unknown  to  her,  but 
she  caudit  eaojerly  at  all  frao-ments  of  leo^end 
and  tradition  that  came  to  her  from  the 
mouths  of  the  old  men  and  women  around 
her  ;  that  earth  and  sky  were  lovely  no  one 
had  ever  told  her,  but  their  beauty  was  full 
of  vague  delight  to  her.  '  A  strange  child,' 
said  the  people  of  Santa  Tarsilla  always, 
because  she  would  sit  for  hours  quite  still, 
with  her  dreamy  eyes  fastened  on  the  stars 
of  a  summer  night  or  the  sea  of  an  autumn 
day. 

Once  a  fisher-lad,  thinking  to  please  her, 
had  given  her  a  branch  of  coral.  Musa  had 
taken  it  in  silence.  '  You  can  sell  it,'  said 
another  girl  of  her  age.  '  It  is  a  brave  piece 
and  of  rare  colour.'  '  When  you  grow 
bigger,  and  go  in  with  the  mule  to  the  town,' 

VOL.  I.  G 


82  i:^  MAREMMA. 


said  another,  '  you  can  have  it  cut  into  beads 
to  wear  ;  it  is  a  brave  piece.' 

Musa  had  said  nothing,  but  she  got  old 
Andrea's  boat,  that  day,  and  rowed  out  to 
where  the  water  was  deep,  and  purple  in 
colour,  yet  transparent  as  glass  in  its  great 
depth  ;  and  there,  being  all  alone,  leaned 
over  the  boat's  side  and  dropped  the  coral 
into  the  water,  and  watched  it  sink  down, 
down,  down,  and  join  the  other  coral  that 
grew  there,  far  below. 

'  It  will  be  happier,'  she  had  said  to 
herself;  '  it  is  not  where  it  came  from,  I  dare 
say,  but  it  is  the  best  I  can  do.' 

It  had  seemed  to  her  that  the  coral  would 
be  so  glad  to  be  once  more  in  those  calm,  cool 
and  shadowy  deeps  where  never  burned  the 
sun,  and  never  sound  was  heard. 

When  she  had  reached  land  afterwards 
and  met  all  the  other  children,  and  the  giver 
of  the  coral  amongst  them,  and  they  asked  her 
for  it,  she  had  answered,  '  I  have  put  it  back 
into  the  sea,'  and  they  had  screamed  at  her ; 
and  the  fisher-iad  sworn  at  her  and  tried  to 
give  her  a  blow  :  this  was  all  her  gratitude  ! 
they  cried  in  offence  and  wrath. 

Questioned,  she  could  not  very  well  have 
told  why  she  had  done  it.     Only  she  pitied 


IX  MAREMMA.  H:; 


everything  that  was  taken  out  of  that  fresh 
free  hfe  of  the  deep  sea,  and  not  seldom  when 
she  got  a  chance  shpped  back  from  the  net 
into  the  waves  the  shining  silver  of  the 
stru^zaliiio'  fish,  caiiQ-ht  when  tlie  moon  was 
high.  For  which  not  seldom  she  got  a 
blow  too.  For  men  and  women  do  not  like 
pity  that  interferes  with  their  livelihood. 

'  Thou  art  a  strans^e  one  ! '  said  Joconda 
many  a  time,  for  the  splendid,  abmidant, 
darino;  health  and  streno^th  of  the  child 
seemed  strange  there,  in  those  pale  fever 
mists,  amidst  those  pallid,  inert  populations. 
She  w^as  good  to  the  child,  but  she  was  afraid 
of  her.  The  crimes  of  the  Mastarna  men 
seemed  to  her  fancies  to  hover,  like  a  cloud 
of  guilt,  above  this  innocent  head.  The 
blood  that  coursed  so  buoyantly  in  those  blue 
veins  was  the  blood  of  an  assassin  and  a 
robber.     Joconda  could  not  forget  that. 

When  she  looked  at  the  form  of  the 
child,  leaping  naked  in  the  blue  waters,  she 
could  not  but  look  over  to  the  north  where 
the  islands  blent  with  the  golden  sky,  and 
cross  herself  as  she  thought,  '  the  father  is 
there  in  chains  ! ' 

She  was  not  even  sure  that  the  child 
cared   for   lier ;    tlie   child  seemed  to  love 

G   L> 


84  IN  MAREMMA. 

nothing  except  Leone  the  dog,  and  tlie  sea. 
She  had  a  passion  for  the  winds  and  the 
waters,  for  the  open  moor,  for  the  free  air, 
and  was  no  more  to  be  kept  within 
doors  than  a  mountain  beast  or  sea-bird 
would  have  been  ;  but  for  human  creatures 
she  did  not  care,  and  she  had  none  of  the 
caressing,  clinging  ways  of  childhood.  The 
thought  of  her  weighed  heavily  on  Joconda  ; 
it  was  a  burden  to  her,  night  and  day. 

'  Does  one  suffer  for  doing  good  ? '  she 
muttered  witli  a  sigh  to  her  priest. 

'If  one  did  not,  where  would  be  the 
merit  of  it  ?  '  said  he. 

But  Joconda  shook  her  head ;  the  ways 
of  the  Saints  were  hard.  Her  old  ae^e  had 
been  already  joyless  and  laborious  and  bare 
and  meagre.  But  it  had  been  tranquil,  with 
no  heavier  care  than  to  get  provender  for 
her  mule,  and  bread  for  her  own  soup-pot. 
Now  a  weary  apprehcDsion,  an  anxious 
trouble,  were  with  her  always. 

If  the  child,  like  the  father,  should  offend 
God  and  man  ? 

She  knew  nothing  of  transmitted  taint 
and  hereditary  influence,  but  her  experience 
told  her  that  what  is  bred  in  the  bone  comes 
out  in  the  flesh ;  and  her  fears  made  her  see 


IN  MAREMMA.  85 


for  ever  behind  the  proud,  bright,  noble 
figure  of  the  child  the  scarlet  spectres  of 
carnage  and  crime,  the  shadow  of  Saturnino 
Mastarna's  sins. 

'  And  I  am  old,'  she  would  think  ;  '  I 
may  die —  die  soon — and  what  then  ? ' 

Once  the  child  terrified  both  Joconda 
and  the  village.  A  man  threw  a  stone  at 
Leone  and  hit  the  dog  in  the  eye ;  she  flew 
on  the  man  and  stabbed  him  with  the  knife 
with  which  she  was  cleaniDg  a  gourd. 

The  knife  only  made  a  skin  wound,  and 
the  man  was  appeased  with  wine  and  a  little 
money  ;  but  the  terrible  fury  and  convulsive 
rage  of  the  child  scared  the  people  of  Santa 
Tarsi  11a,  though  they  were  used  to  dagger 
thrusts  and  long  feuds. 

Joconda  reasoned  with  her,  and  punished 
her,  and  threatened  her ;  but  nothing  that 
she  could  do  could  convince  the  little  rebel 
that  she  had  been  wrong. 

'Leone  bites  those  who  hurt  me,'  was 
all  that  she  would  say. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 


|HE  grew  to  eight  years  old  with- 
out ever  seeming  to  think  of  ac- 
counting for  lier  own  existence. 
Then,    abruptly   one    day    she 
said  to  Joconda  : 

*  Are  you  my  mother  ? ' 
Joconda's  weatherbeaten  hard  flice  broke 
into  a  laugh. 

'  Lord  !  baby — why  I  am  seventy  years 
old  and  more ! ' 

'  Where  is  my  mother,  then  ?  ' 
'  In  heaven,'  said  Joconda  ;  and  thought, 
'  poor  soul,  more  like  in  hell ! ' 
The  child  was  silent,  pondering. 
'  Where  is  my  father,  then  ?  ' 
'  Why  do  you  ask  such  things  ?  ' 
'  Because  the  others,  they  have  a  father 
and  a  mother  apiece,  where  are  mine  ?  ' 


ly  MAREMMA.  87 


Joconda  liad  often  dreaded  tlie  question 
tliat  sooner  or  later  was  sure  to  come. 

'  Your  father  is  dead,'  she  answered. 

'  Dead  in  the  sea  ?  '  said  the  child. 

People  were  so  often  killed  by  the  sea  in 
Santa  Tarsilla. 

'Yes,'  said  Joconda,  and  she  looked  over 
to  the  north  where  she  knew  that  the  isle  of 
Gorgona  rose  from  the  waves. 

'  Did  he  q;o  to  fish  ?  '  asked  the  child. 

'  No,  dear,'  said  Joconda,  with  a  pang  at 
her  heart.  '  No,  dear ;  he  was  a  mountaineer, 
he  lived  up  yonder  ;  in  the  hills  ;  do  not  vex 
your  soul  over  that,  child  ;  it  is  of  no  use.' 

The  child  did  not  understand,  nor  did 
she  give  much  heed ;  her  grave  straight 
brows  were  drawn  too-ether  in  thouirht,  and 
her  curved  rosy  lips  were  shut  fast. 

'  I  think  I  do  remember  him,'  she  said 
at  last  very  slowly.  '  I  remember  liim  kiss- 
ing me,  and  he  had  something  cold  and 
bright  that  hurt  me,  and  he  put  it  away,  and 
then  tliere  were  smoke,  and  screaming,  and 
shots,  and  I  crept  imder  Leone's  stomacli 
and  hid.     I  do  remember.' 

'  You  dreamt  tliat,  baby,'  said  Joconda 
harshly,  because  she  was  pained ;  '  the  cold 
bright  tiling '  that  had  hurt  her  must  have 


88  IN  MAREMMA. 


been  the  dasfgrer  red  with  so  much  blood ! 

CO 

But  the  child  shook  her  head  and  persisted : 

'  No  :  I  do  remember.' 

And  she  sat  down  on  the  earthen  floor, 
and  put  her  arms  round  Leone,  and  leaned 
her  head  on  his,  and  asked  him,  did  he  not 
remember  too  ? 

'  Bless  the  o-ood  God  that  made  the 
beasts  dumb  ! '  thought  Joconda. 

She  hoped  the  child  would  not  tell  it  to 
the  ■  neighbours.  The  child  did  not.  She 
was  never  talkative,  but  held  herself  aloof; 
not  out  of  shyness  nor  yet  out  of  temper, 
because  she  was  a  bold  child,  and  except  for 
rare  fits  of  untamable  passion,  was  of  serene 
temper,  but  out  of  a  seriousness  and  indif- 
ference that  seemed  strange  in  one  so  young. 

There  was  no  one  to  give  her  guardian 
counsel  in  Santa  Tarsilla. 

The  priest  was  a  homely,  ignorant 
man,  son  of  a  fisherman,  one  of  them- 
selves in  both  his  ways  and  thoughts, 
and  the  rest  were  all  poor  creatures  in 
her  estimation,  shrunken  and  sickened  with 
fever,  swollen  with  dropsy,  or  palsied  with 
the  ague  of  the  coast,  as  they  so  often  were, 
and  living  quite  away  from  the  world  of 
men,  hardly  knowing  when  revolution  was 


IN  MAREMMA.  80 

running  riot  in  the  cities,  hardly  hearing 
when  ships  were  sinking,  and  squadrons  were 
falhng,  in  war  upon  sea  or  land. 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  isolation  more 
complete,  no  igcorance  more  absolute,  than 
that  of  a  little  obscure  town  on  the  '  ac- 
cursed Maremma,'  as  the  people  call  this 
rich  and  fruitful  land,  because  the  greed 
and  the  folly  of  men  have  cursed  it. 

No  one  comes  nigh  it ;  nothing  is  done 
for  it;  now  and  then,  with  years  between 
each,  travellers  may  wander  to  the  sites  of 
Etruscan  cities,  or  hunters  come  to  kill 
tlie  wild,  soft  creatures  of  the  marsh  and 
moor  ;  that  is  all.  The  only  thing  known 
of  government  is  the  tax  wrung  out  of 
the  empty  pocket ;  the  fine,  for  which 
the  cupboard  must  go  breadless ;  no  one 
can  write,  scarce  any  one  can  read  ;  sub- 
mission and  weakness  beget  indifference  to 
all  things  ;  if  any  great  tidings  are  brouglit, 
no  one  cares ;  it  will  make  no  difference  to 
the  people.  They  creep  about  in  the  sun, 
and  the  slow  boats  go  out,  and  the  sultry 
heavens  hang  over  the  torpid  sea,  and  when 
the  bell  rings  they  all  wend  tlieir  listless 
way  to  the  old  church  and  pray  to  Some- 
thing Avhich  tliey  believe  in,  but  which  does 


90  IN  MAREMMA, 

not  help  them,  and  so  their  hves  go  on  and 
end  :  and  no  one  cares. 

It  is  the  sea-shore,  indeed. 

But  all  the  health,  and  vigour,  and  strong 
activity,  and  pungent  fresh  odours,  and  buoy- 
ant winds,  of  the  sea  elsewhere  are  too  often 
missinsr  here.  No  one  knows  how  hateful 
the  blessed  and  beautiful  sea  can  be  who  has 
not  seen  it,  oily,  and  glassy,  and  motion- 
less, stretching  under  a  gTcy  sky  that  looks 
parched  with  mists  of  intensest  heat,  and 
with  the  fever  fog  of  the  poisonous  summer 
hovering  about  the  glaring  sands. 

It  is  no  sin  of  the  sea's ;  the  sin  is  man's 
alone. 

Centuries  upon  centuries  of  carnage,  and 
destruction,  and  fatal  waste,  have  laid  the 
land  bare,  and  brought  disease  and  desola- 
tion in  their  train.  Perhaps  one  day  the 
whole  earth  will  be  like  this  wasted  Marem- 
ma  shore  ;  it  is  very  possible.  This  land 
was  healthful  and  lovely  enough  in  the 
da}  s  Avhen  the  legions  of  Fabius  coveted  its 
wealth;  and  even  in  the  later  age,  when 
Kutilius  dropped  anchor  at  Populonia,  it 
was  still  for  the  most  part  busy,  crowded, 
prosperous. 

The   sickliness   of  the   shore,   however, 


IN  MAREMMA.  91 


seems  little  to  affect  children,  and  it  hurt 
not  at  all  the  buoyant  health  and  elastic 
strength  of  the  young  child  they  called  Velia 
and  the  Musoncella.  For  one  tiling,  she  was 
for  ever  in  the  water  when  slie  was  not  scam- 
pering, fleet  of  foot  as  the  hill  goats,  along 
the  sands,  or  further  out  to  the  moor- 
lands, where  the  fresher  air  was.  Hardy 
men  came  from  the  mountains,  and  fell 
sick,  and  even  died ;  strong  soldiers  came 
on  guard  from  hot  cities,  and  there  grew 
wasted,  and  languid,  and  ill,  but  she 
throve  there  with  a  splendid  vitality  and 
vigour  that  were  the  pride  of  Joconda 
and  her  shame ;  her  shame,  because  it 
recalled  to  her  the  face  and  form  which 
she  had  seen  for  the  last  time  by  the  red 
autumn  light  in  the  market  place  at 
Grosseto. 

'  She  is  his  image,'  she  would  say,  scan- 
ning the  pure,  oval  face,  the  arched,  proud 
lips,  the  eyes  like  the  eyes  of  the  Braschi 
Antinous,  the  whole  fiice  that  had  the 
colour  and  the  beauty  of  a  flower  with  the 
firm  lines  of  a  classic  bronze. 

Of  beauty  she  was  no  great  judge,  her- 
self, but  she  knew  that  this  child  was  beau- 
tiful with  the  terrible  beauty  of  Saturnine. 


92  IN  MAREMMA. 


The  law,  with  its  curious  one-sided 
chastisement  which  it  calls  justice,  had 
taken  to  itself  the  guilty  man,  and  left  tlie 
innocent  offspring  alone  to  perish  as  it 
might ;  and  the  heart  of  Joconda  was  heavy 
because  she  herself  was  old  and  the  child 
was  so  young,  and  vras  not  a  child  to  put 
away  in  peace  within  convent  walls,  nor  yet 
grow  up  to  dwell  contentedly  in  a  fisher- 
man's hut. 

'  Blood  will  out,'  she  thought. 

Meanwhile  the  child  for  the  time  was 
content  enough  ;  she  fared  hardly,  for 
Joconda  could  do  no  better  for  her  ;  she  bit 
black  bread  and  salt  fish  with  her  pearl-like 
teeth  and  often  was  hungry ;  she  raked  in 
the  glass  wrack  and  the  ribbon  weed  for  fuel, 
and  wore  rough  homespun  clothes  about  her 
supple  loins,  but  she  was  content  enough  ; 
she  had  the  freedom  of  the  shore  and  the 
sea,  and  if  any  maltreated  her  it  was  the 
worse  for  them.  And  she  knew  nothiug  of 
that  wild  life  which  had  been  caught  like  a 
wild  beast;  and  caged  hke  one,  on  that 
island,  which  lay  far  off  upon  the  waters  like 
a  little  light  golden  cloud. 

When  she  grew  old  enough  to  listen  to 
what  people  said,  the  story  of  Saturnino  had 


IN  MAREMMA.  OS 


grown  older  also,  and  few  even  gave  a  thought 
to  it.  There  had  been  wars  and  other  heroes 
since  then ;  he  was  at  the  galleys  at  Gor- 
gona  ;  but  the  Marennna  had  ceased  to  talk 
of  him  except  when,  now  and  then,  round  a 
fire  in  the  forests,  or  becalmed  out  at  sea,  a 
charcoal  burner  or  a  coral  fisher  would  say, 
'  Aie  !  he  icas  a  man ! — tliat  was  in  the  good 
thiie  ;  we  have  no  such  men  now,  we  are  all 
afraid.' 

For  as  the  monotonous  years  rolled  on, 
all  alike,  exactly  alike,  bringing  the  drouth 
of  summer  and  the  storms  of  winter  over  the 
low  sea-shore,  twelve  years  had  drifted  away 
like  twelve  hours,  and  the  child  w^as  fourteen 
years  old  before  Joconda  could  have  counted 
twelve  on  her  fingers ;  so  she  said,  one  day, 
looking  up  at  the  lithe  figure  between  her 
and  the  sunshine. 

'  Holy  Mary,  you  will  be  a  woman 
before  one  knows  it!'  she  cried,  with  a 
pang  at  her  heart,  for  she  was  now  very  old 
herself,  and  when  she  was  gone — who  could 
tell? 

'  A  woman  !  '  repeated  the  girl :  it  did 
not  seem  a  word  that  suited  her. 

'  Yes,  you  are  not  a  boy,'  said  Joconda 
testily.     '  So  a  woman  you  will  be,  worse 


94  i^  MAREMMA. 


luck.     If  one  could   only  see  a  little  way 
ahead — woe's  me  ! ' 

'  Does  it  vex  you  I  am  not  a  boy  ?  '  said 
the  girl.  '  Why  should  it  vex  you  ?  I  can 
do  all  that  they  can.  I  can  row  better  than 
many,  and  sail  and  steer  ;  I  can  dive  too, 
and  I  know  what  to  do  with  the  nets  ;  if  I 
had  a  boat  of  my  own  you  would  see  what  I 
could  do.' 

'  All  that  is  very  well,'  said  Joconda,  with 
a  little  nod.  '  I  do  not  say  it  is  not.  .But 
you  have  not  the  boat  of  your  own,  that  is 
just  it ;  that  is  what  women  always  suffer 
from ;  they  have  to  steer,  but  the  craft 
is  someone  else's  and  the  haul  too.' 

The  child  looked  at  her  from  under  bent 
brows.  She  did  not  understand  the  w^ords, 
she  took  them  literally. 

'  Eor  me,'  she  said,  '  I  do  not  care  w^hose 
it  is,  not  at  all ;  I  care  for  the  fishing,  but 
what  does  it  matter  wdio  has  what  it 
brings  ? ' 

'  It  matters  when  one  starves,'  said 
Joconda. 

'  But  we  do  not  starve.' 
'  No  we  do  not.' 

She  spoke  with  curtness,  but  there  was 
a  dimness  in  her  eyes  that  was  not  merely 


IN  MAHmnfA.  95 


from  old  age.  They  did  not,  while  she  was 
here,  witli  her  lease  of  the  old  house,  and 
her   prudent    savings,    but   when    she   was 

gone  ? 

The  people  were  very  poor  ;  tliey  could 
seldom  get  food  enough  for  themselves  ;  who 
would  cherish  a  nameless  child  ?  She  herself, 
though  she  had  neighbours,  had  no  friends  ; 
she  was  always  the  '  woman  of  Savoy '  to 
all  the  folks  of  Santa  Tarsilla. 

It  made  her  very  anxious,  for  she  was  a 
good  woman,  and  the  creature  that  lay  on 
her  bed  and  ate  at  her  board,  slie  loved, 
thouG^h  she  said  but  little. 

'  Do  you  ever  tliink  that  I  shall  die  ? ' 
she  said  abruptly  to  the  child,  wlio  looked 
at  her  in  some  surprise. 

'Die?'  she  echoed,  'That  is  a'oino; 
away  into  the  earth,  you  mean,  as  every- 
thing does,  and  then  it  goes  upward  and 
lives  with  God,  they  say ;  would  you  wish 
that?' 

'  I  will  have  to  do  it  wliether  I  wish  or 
not,  and  about  living  with  God  I  do  not 
know.  I  am  a  sinful  soul,  tliough  not  worse 
than  most.  But  you  do  not  understand. 
When  I  am  dead,  under  the  earth  as  you 
say,  what  will  you  do  ?  ' 


S6  IN  MAREMMA. 

'  I  do  not  know/ 

She  did  not ;  she  had  never  thought  of  the 
matter ;  her  mind  was  blank,  though  her 
body  was  vigorous.  Then  she  added  after  a 
little  thought : 

'  I  will  give  myself  to  the  sea ;  tliat  is 
the  way  I  will  die.' 

'  You !  I  speak  of  myself.' 
'  I  will  die  if  you  do.' 

Joconda  looked  at  her  amazed  and 
keenly  touched. 

'  Do  you  love  me  so  much  then  ?  '  she 
cried  suddenly. 

•  Is  that  love  ?  '  said  the  child.  '  I  should 
not  like  to  live  if  you  were  not  here ;  I  do 
not  know  if  you  call  that  love.* 

'  It  is  love,'  said  Joconda. 

She  felt  her  eyes  full  of  the  slow  tears  of 
age,  tears  salt  as  the  crystals  the  sea  left 
on  the  shore.  '  Ah,  my  dear,  my  dear ! ' 
she  muttered,  'It  is  not  myself  that  will 
cause  you  to  die  for  love,  but  it  may  be 
some  other — wlien  I  am  gone  and  cannot 
help  you  !     Ah,  child,  why  were  you  born  ?' 

Musa  did  not  hear  ;  she  was  standing 
with  her  brown  hand  on  the  white  head  of 
her  dog  lookin^^  out  seaward  ;  the  words 
that  had  been  spoken  had  not  saddened  her 


IN  MAREMMA.  97 

because  they  were  vague  to  her.  Joconda 
had  always  been  there — why  should  slie  go 
away  to  earth  or  sky  ? 

It  was  an  April  day  ;  at  this  season  the 
sea  had  no  vapour  and  the  shore  no  miasma  ; 
there  was  enough  breeze  to  curl  the  little 
waves  and  send  the  foam  in  ripples ;  the 
boats  were  out  and  the  low  pale  beach  was 
alive  with  life,  as  the  women  shook  and 
tossed  the  seaweed,  and  raked  up  the  crystals 
of  the  salt,  in  the  morning  light. 

'  If  I  had  only  a  boat !  '  she  said  with  a 
sigh. 

It  seemed  to  her  the  one  supreme  glory  of 
life — a  boat. 

A  boat  altogether  one's  own,  to  go  out 
with  in  wild  weather  when  all  others  were 
afraid ;  to  lie  in,  all  still  and  alone,  on 
tranquil  waters,  gazing  down  into  the  blue 
depths  where  the  coral  branches  were,  and 
tlie  starry  llowers  of  the  sea,  and  the 
gemhke  eyes  of  the  fishes ;  to  steer,  all  by 
oneself,  tlirough  tossing  roaring  breakers, 
tlirougli  wind  and  tempest,  under  inky  skies 
and  beetling  rocks,  with  the  fierce  hurricane 
in  front  and  the  thundering  waters  beliind  ; 
a  boat  all  one's  own  ;  that  was  the  one 
triumpli  of  life. 

VOL.    I.  II 


98  i2V^  MAREMMA, 

But  slie  had  no  boat ;  Joconcla  could  not 
give  lier  one ;  and  when  it  was  stormy 
weather  the  men  put  her  back,  and  would 
not  let  her  go  with  them,  because  she  was  a 
child,  because  she  would  be  a  woman.  Yes ; 
she  understood  as  she  thought  of  the  boat ; 
she  understood  that  it  was  very  bad  to  be  a 
woman. 

Joconda  broke  in  on  her  thoughts. 

'  Wild  bird  of  sea  and  cloud,'  she  said 
more  tenderly  than  she  had  ever  spoken, '  you 
are  a  stormy  petrel,  but  there  may  come  a 
storm  too  many — and  I  am  old.  I  have  done 
my  best,  but  that  is  little.  If  you  were  a  lad, 
one  would  not  be  so  uneasy.  I  suppose  the 
good  God  knows  best — if  one  could  be  sure 
of  that — I  am  a  hard-working  woman,  and 
I  have  done  no  great  sin  that  I  know  of, 
but  up  in  heaven  they  never  take  any 
thought  of  me.  When  I  was  young,  I  asked 
them  at  my  marriage  altar  to  help  me,  and 
when  my  boys  were  born,  I  did  the  same,  but 
they  never  noticed ;  my  man  w^as  drowned, 
and  my  l)eautiful  boys  got  the  fever,  and 
sickened  one  by  one  and  died  :  that  was  all 
I  got.  Priests  say  it  is  best ;  priests  are  not 
mothers.' 

She  was  silent  awhile,  her  thoughts  tra- 


IN  MAREMMA.  99 

veiling  backward  many  a  year  to  tlie  time 
when  she  had  been  3"oung,  and  had  known 
both  the  joys  and  the  travails  begotten  of 
love.  She  had  been  a  hard-working  woman, 
toiling  for  the  bare  bread  of  life,  until  she 
had  grown  old;  but  she  had  been  faithful, 
and  she  had  not  forc^otten. 

Only  heaven  had  forgotten  her. 

She  was  one  amongst  so  many,  she 
thought :  it  was  not  wonderfal. 

Then  she  roused  herself  and  went  on 
with  her  speech  to  the  child. 

'  I  am  old  and  you  are  young.  Soon  I 
must  leave  yon,  dear,  down  in  the  earth, 
up  in  the  sky,  one  way  or  another  I 
must  so.  I  am  anxious — there  is  the  little 
money  in  the  jug  under  the  bricks,  and 
the  linen  and  the  mule,  that  is  all ;  the 
house  goes  back  to  the  master.  I  cannot 
tell  what  you  will  do — may  tlie  saints 
spare  me  just  a  little.  If  you  were  a 
woman  grown ,  one  would  not  be  so  anxious. 
To  please  me  will  you  go  and  learn  of  the 
Sisters  ? ' 

'  No,'  said  the  child,  resolutely.  Tliere 
was  a  bare,  dreary  place  near  at  hand,  where 
a  few  good  women  dwelt,  who  nursed  the 
fever  -  stricken    and    taught    the    children. 

n  2 


100  IN  MAREMMA. 

They  would  have  taught  this  child,  too,  but 
she  would  never  2:0  to  them. 

'Within  four  walls  I  am  stupid  as  a 
stone,'  she  said,  and  said  aright. 

'  But  the  Sisters  would  help  you  to  learn 
things  useful  for  all  your  life.' 

The  child  shook  her  head. 

'  I  can  sail  a  boat  and  cast  a  net ;  they 
cannot.' 

'  Some  fisher  lad  must  take  you  in  a  year 
or  two.' 

'  They  will  not  take  me,'  said  the  child, 
not  understanding  the  sense  that  was  meant. 
'  They  are  jealous,  because  I  am  strong.  The 
old  men  take  me  ;  they  are  kind,  sometimes  ; 
old  Andreino  most  of  all.' 

Joconda  said  no  more  ;  she  would  not 
disturb  the  innocence  and  ignorance  of  the 
child  by  saying  what  she  herself  had  meant. 

'  These  thoughts  come  soon  enough,'  she 
said  to  herself,  and  added  aloud  : 

'Don  Piero  says  you  sing  like  all  the 
angels.  That  is  better  than  even  to  sail  a 
boat,  for  it  pleases  those  in  heaven.' 

'  I  sing  for  myself,'  said  the  child,  '  and 
it  is  on  the  sea  that  I  sing  the  best.  In  the 
church  my  throat  gets  full  of  dust ;  there  is 
no  air,  and  I  hate  it.' 


IN  MAREMMA.  101 

'  Hush,  hush !  The  church  is  a  holy 
place,  and  the  sea  may  drown  you  some 
day.' 

'  It  is  a  good  death,'  said  the  child,  care- 
lessl3^ 

Joconda  shuddered ;  she  remembered 
the  night  of  fifty  years  before,  when  her 
husband's  boat  had  gone  down,  heeling  over 
into  the  white,  boiling  surf,  on  the  very  edge 
of  the  shore. 

'  There  are  such  beautiful  things  to  see 
dow^n,  down,  deep  down,  in  the  sea,'  added 
the  child. 

'  What  good  is  that  to  them  ?  Dead 
men  are  blind,'  said  Joconda  wearily. 
'  Whether  you  lie  in  the  sand  or  the  sea 
it  matters  nothing  once  you  are  dead,  but  it 
matters  to  those  that  are  left.  Child,  do  not 
talk  of  such  things  ;  death  is  no  toy,  and  the 
sea  is  greedy  always.' 

'  The  sea  is  good,'  said  the  child  jea- 
lously, as  if  some  creature  she  loved  were 
aspersed.  '  The  sea  is  better  than  the 
land.  You  wish  me  a  boy.  It  is  a  seagull 
that  I  wish  I  were  ;  I  would  be  if  I  could.' 

'  A  seagull  cannot  sing.' 

'I  w^ould  sooner  fly  than  sing.  It  is 
something  that  sings  in  my  throat,  not  me ; 


102  IX  MAREMMA. 


but  when  I  swim,  when  I  dive,  that  is  all 
me.' 

Joconda  for  her  part  did  not  understand. 

'  You  are  a  strange  creature,'  she  said 
impatiently.  '  It  would  have  been  better  if 
you  had  been  ugly  and  quiet,  and  without 
that  devil  in  you  that  will  never  let  you  be 
still.  But  it  is  no  fault  of  yours.  There  are 
seagulls  and  there  are  barn-door  fowls,  and 
the  good  Lord  made  them  both.  Well,  go, 
rake  some  seaweed  together  or  any  other 
rack  of  your  precious  sea  that  one  can  burn  ; 
we  are  very  poor ;  we  shall  be  poorer,  for  I 
get  too  old  and  you  are  too  young.' 

Joconda  looked  after  her  as  the  little 
erect  figure  stood  out  in  the  light  against 
the  turquoise  blue  of  the  sky  and  sea,  and  the 
primrose  colour  of  the  low  sunlit  clouds. 

'  She  would  never  be  a  house-keeping, 
heaven-fearing  thing,'  she  thought  with  a 
sigh.  '  All  one  can  hope  for  is  that  she  may 
please  some  fishing  lad  and  be  an  honest 
mother  of  young  sea  dogs.  There  is  fierce 
blood  in  her  ;  it  will  out.' 

And  she  felt  sorrowful,  and  as  though 
she  herself  had  done  some  sin,  sitting  in  the 
stone  archway  of  her  house  door  with  the 
-heavy  brown  sail  dropped  across  her  knees. 


CHAPTER  y. 


'EANWHILE,  the   child  went  out 
to  her   task.     She    was    always 
willing  to  labour  in  the  open  air. 
It   was   only   against  four  walls 
that  she  rebelled. 

She  had  taken  a  kreel,  and  a  fork,  aiid 
went  down  to  the  black  and  purple  masses 
of  als^as  that  a  rouoh  sea  of  the  ni^iit 
before  had  cast  on  the  shore.  Her  feet  were 
bare  ;  her  grey  linen  garment  clung  close  to 
her  graceful  and  strong  lim]:)s  ;  her  hair  was 
cut  so  that  it  only  touched  her  throat,  and 
was  as  brilliant  in  the  sunshine  as  that  bronze 
of  emperors  which  had  gold  ungrudged  in  its 
formation ;  her  noble  eyes  grave,  lustrous, 
wide  opened,  gazed  over  the  sunlight,  beyond 
the  bay,  to  the  open  sea. 


104  IN  MAREMMA. 

She  was  not  unhappy,  because  Joconcla 
was  good  to  her ;  because  she  had  perfect 
health  and  strength,  because  she  had  no 
sorrow  and  took  no  thought,  hving  a  simple 
unconscious  existence  like  any  one  of  the 
northern  birds  that  she  was  called  after  ;  but 
she  was  always  restless ;  she  always  wanted 
something,  but  she  never  knew  what ;  some- 
times she  would  dive  headforemost  into  the 
deep  water  and  fancy  she  might  find  it  there ; 
sometimes  she  would  get  away  into  the 
moors  in  the  great  summer  silence,  and  sit 
there  alone  and  wonder,  but  nothing  was 
very  clear  to  her. 

Without  culture,  neither  wishes  nor 
wonder  are  very  intelhgible,  and  Musa, 
though  she  had  been  forced  to  put  letters 
together  till  she  could  read  the  names  of  the 
boats  and  the  saints,  and  other  familiar 
things,  was  very  ignorant.  Her  mind  was  a 
blank, — as  her  soul  was ;  all  that  was  alive 
and  strong  iii  her,  was  physical  life  ;  life 
abundant,  vigorous,  untiring,  beautiful,  like 
the  life  of  a  forest  animal. 

The  few  fishing-cobbles  that  Santa 
Tarsilla  owned,  were  out  at  sea  ;  there  was 
only  one  man  left  on  the  beach  who  was 


-  IN  MAREMMA,  106 

tinkering  up  his  own  old  boat  and  humming 
to  himself  that  song  of  the  coast, 

Chi  va  in  Maremma,  saluti  il  bel  giglio 
Che  sta  sulle  montagne  di  Solia  ! 

He  was  called  Andrei  no,  or  Little 
Andrew,  perhaps  for  no  other  reason  than 
that  he  was  a  very  tall,  lean,  angular  man  ; 
bent  and  yellow,  and  very  old ;  so  old  that 
his  age  was  lost  even  to  himself  hi  the  fog 
of  some  irrevocable  and  inconceivable  past. 

'  Avante  '1  regno  dei  Francesi,'  he  would 
say  with  a  vague  sense  of  unlimited  ancient- 
ness.  When  a  boy  he  had  been  very  nearly 
shot  by  a  squadron  of  French  lancers,  and 
this  had  impressed  the  epoch  of  invasion  on 
him  ;  and  most  things  with  him  were  re- 
ferred to  that  time. 

He  was  a  garrulous  man,  and  had  many 
stories,  mythical  and  fantastical,  in  which 
he  believed  ;  things  that  he  had  seen  and 
done  in  real  truth,  but  which  had  become 
distorted  or  transfigured,  according  to  their 
kind  through  the  loss  of  his  many  years. 
To  these  tales  Santa  Tarsilla  always  listened 
in  the  long  hot  evenings  of  tlio  weary 
summer,   when    not   a   liand    had    scarcely 


106  IN  MAREMMA. 


strength  to  twang  a  string  of  a  chitarra,  and 
only  the  tongues  wagged  on  as  their  owners 
lay  full  length  on  stone  or  sand. 

Amono'st  his  listeners  there  was  none  so 
attentive  as  the  wild-bird  Velia.  She  Avould 
stand  or  sit  with  parted  lips  and  wondering 
eyes,  and  listen  to  all  he  said  without  a  word  ; 
mute  and  awed,  and  charmed  to  stillness. 
For  that  homage  of  attention,  which  she  had 
rendered  to  him  ever  since  she  was  old 
enough  to  know  the  meaning  of  ^\'ords,  old 
Andreino  favoured  her. 

Santa  Tarsilla  did  not.  She  was  stronger, 
brisfhter,  bolder,  than  its  sickly  children,  and 
moreover  it  Avas  jealous  because  it  was 
always  thought  the  woman  of  Savoy  had 
hidden  treasure,  and  of  course  what  there 
A^•as  the  cliild  would  have,  when  in  due 
course  the  silent  life  of  the  Savoyard  should 
sink  into  the  intenser  silence  of  the  tomb. 

'  They  say  he  sang  too  well,  and  that 
was  why  they  burnt  him,'  said  Andreino  to 
her  to-day,  after  telling  her  for  the  hun- 
dredth time  of  what  he  had  seen  once  on  the 
Ligurian  shore,  far  away  yonder  northward, 
when  he,  who  knew  nothing  of  Adonais  or 
Prometheus,  had  been  called,  a  stout  sea- 
faring man  in    that    time,   amongst  other 


IN  MAEEMMA,  107 

peasants  of  the  country  side,  to  lielp  bring 
in  the  wood  for  a  funeral  p3're  by  the 
sea. 

He  had  known  nouoht  of  the  sonf]:s  or 
the  singer,  but  he  loved  to  tell  the  tale  he 
had  heard  then  ;  and  say  how  he  had  seen, 
he  himself,  with  his  own  eyes,  the  drowned 
poet  burn,  far  away  yonder  where  the  pines 
stood  by  the  sea,  and  how  the  flames  had 
curled  around  the  heart  that  men  had  done 
their  best  to  break,  and  how  it  had  remained 
unburned  in  the  midst,  whilst  all  the  rest 
drifted  in  ashes  down  the  wind.  He  knew 
nought  of  the  Skylark's  ode,  and  nouglit  of 
the  Cor  Cordium  ;  but  the  scene  by  the  sea- 
shore had  burned  itself  as  tliough  with  flame 
into  his  mind,  and  he  spoke  of  it  a  thousand 
times  if  once,  sitting  by  the  edge  of  the  sea 
that  had  killed  the  singer. 

'  Will  they  burn  me  if  I  sing  too  well  ?  ' 
the  child  asked  him  this  day,  the  words 
of  Joconda  being  with  her. 

'  Oh,  that  is  sure,'  said  Andreiuo,  half  in 
jest  and  half  in  earnest.  '  Tliey  burnt  him 
because  he  sang  better  than  all  of  them. 
So  they  said.  I  do  not  know.  I  know  the 
resin  ran  out  of  tlie  pine  wood  all  goklen 
and  hissing,  and  his  heart  would  not  burn, 


108  J2V  MARE.AnfA. 

all  we  could  do.  You  are  a  female  thing, 
Musa  ;  your  heart  will  be  the  first  to  burn, 
the  first  of  all ! ' 

'  "Will  it  ?  '  said  Musa,  seriously,  but  not 
in  any  way  alarmed,  for  the  thought  of  that 
fiaming  pile  by  the  seashore  by  night  was 
a  famihar  imasje  to  her. 

'  Aye,  for  sure  ;  you  will  be  a  woman ! ' 
said  Andreino,  hammerinsf  into  his  boat. 

She  knitted  her  brows  in  angry  medi- 
tation, and  went  slowly  away  from  him. 

Andreino  looked  after  her  as  Joconda 
had  done. 

'  She  grows  fast,'  he  said,  as  lie  took  his 
pipe  from  his  mouth.  His  wife  was  sitting 
near  him  on  a  block  of  stone,  a  feeble,  ague- 
stricken,  wasted  creature. 

'  She  gi'ows  fast,'  he  repeated.  '  I  wish 
we  could  get  her  for  little  Xando  ;  she  has 
a  rare  com-aofe,  and  is  as  handsome  as  an 
almond  tree  in  flower.' 

'  She  is  a  child,'  said  the  wife ;  '  how 
you  talk ! ' 

'  In  a  year  she  will  not  be  a  child.  The 
almond  tree  is  fii'st  to  flower,  but  it  is  soon 
oflf  blossom,'  said  Andreino,  hammering  at 
the  crazy  timbers  of  his  old  boat.  '  The 
woman  of  Savoy  should  look  out  for  a  stout 


IN  MAREMMA.  -109 

and  honest  lad.  She  is  too  mucli  alone. 
She  ponders  too  much.  That  is  not  good. 
Were  she  my  girl  I  would  get  a  good  lad.' 

'  There  are  no  lads  here.' 

'  But  some  come  ashore  from  the  coasters ; 
a  child  as  handsome  as  that  one,  with  the 
pretty  penny  the  woman  of  Savoy  has  got 
under  the  hearthstone,  need  never  go  a 
begging.  If  she  were  like  Dina,  yonder, 
she  would  soon  leave  off  thinking  about 
dead  singers  and  their  hearts.' 

He  pointed  with  his  pipe-stem  to  his 
grand-daughter,  a  young  woman,  who,  with 
one  child  on  her  breast  and  another  on  her 
back,  was  mending  nets  on  the  mole  wall. 

'She  is  a  baby  herself,'  said  his  wife, 
*  and  it  is  you  who  tell  her  all  those  tales. 
Why  did  you  tell  her  if  it  was  anything 
wrong.' 

'It  is  nothing  wrong,'  said  Andreino, 
offended.  '  Is  it  hkely  I  would  tell  a  child 
a  wrong  thing  ?  All  the  others  they  listen 
and  gape  ;  it  is  only  she  who  takes  the  tale 
to  heart  in  that  fashion.  Things  one  says 
are  like  well-water;  it  is  the  pitcher  they 
are  poured  into  that  colours  them.' 

'  The  pitcher  is  as  it  is  made,'  said  the  old 
wife,  who  was  a  sensible  and  positive  woman. 


110  IN  MAREMMA, 

'  I  never  said  it  was  not,'  said  Andreino. 

Musa  worked  on  steadily  at  her  task, 
carrying  load  after  load  of  marramgrass,  cud- 
w^eed,  and  sealiay,  into  the  house,  which  stood 
at  the  edge  of  the  little  mole  of  Santa  Tarsilla 
between  the  quay  and  the  beach. 

When  she  had  reached  her  last  load,  and 
Joconda,  looking  up  from  her  own  work  at 
the  sail,  called  out  from  the  distance 
'  enough ! '  she  stood  a  moment  with  her 
hands  lightly  resting  on  her  hips  and  looked 
over  the  pale  sands^  the  white  stones,  the 
blue  waves. 

Then  she  pursued  her  last  task  of  carry- 
ing in  the  weed,  as  other  women  were  doing 
also.  The  morning  was-  young  still ;  there 
was  an  opal-hued  light  on  land,  and  sky  and 
sea  ;  the  low,  flat  beach  was  wet  with  recent 
showers ;  the  air  was  cool  and  fragrant ; 
even  the  stagnant  salt-pools  and  the  dreary 
marsh  lands  took  the  sweet  hues  of  the 
springtime  and  the  morning. 

Although  she  had  taken  in  a  good  pro- 
vision of  the  algaa  and  salt-water  plants  and 
stacked  it  in  the  mule's  stable,  it  was  still 
early.  Joconda  was  now  baking  her  black 
loaves  of  bread,  and  the  house  was  full  of 
grey  smoke. 


J-JV  MAREMMA.  lU 


'  Euu  out  again,'  she  said  to  the  child. 
*you  are  hke  a  goat ;  you  stay  ill  at  ease  iu 
stall' 

Musa  wanted  no  other  word ;  she  was 
out  and  away  along  the  shore  almost  as 
soon  as  it  was  spoken,  the  dog  Leone  with 
her  ;  though  he  grew  old  he  seldom  left  her 
side. 

'  May  I  have  the  boat  ? '  she  asked  of 
her  friend  Andreino,  and  he  nodded  assent ; 
he  had  to  stay  at  home  and  mend  his  nets. 
His  legs  were  stiff  and  helpless  with 
rheumatism.  He  adored  his  boat,  but  he 
could  trust  her  with  it.  She  was  as  good  a 
sailor  as  himself,  and  knew  no  fear. 

She  ran  down  to  the  place  where  the 
punt  was  drawn  up  on  the  low  sands,  and 
pushed  it  to  the  water ;  she  sprang  in,  and 
bade  the  dog  stay  and  mind  Joconda.  She 
set  the  sail.  There  was  a  fair  wind  blowing 
from  the  south  ;  the  little  boat  went  with  it. 
Now  and  then  she  o-ave  it  the  aid  of  the 
oars,  but  seldom.  She  could  sit  at  rest,  with 
the  tiller  rope  round  her  foot,  and  let  the 
boat  go  along  the  shore. 

The  land  had  no  loveliness  on  that  bay, 
but  the  sea  had  much  in  that  radiant  and 
tranquil  morning,  and  from  the  water  even 


112  IN  MAREMMA. 

the  land  looked  almost  lovely,  with  the  dark 
masses  of  the  mountains  at  the  back  still 
keeping  the  clouds  and  the  mists  about 
them.  They  were  far  away,  but  they  looked 
almost  near,  those  blue  and  sombre  hills 
that  had  held  so  many  secrets  and  so  many 
sins  of  the  father  of  whom  she  knew 
nothing. 

When  she  had  left  Santa  Tarsilla  behind 
her  by  a  mile,  the  water  was  rougher,  the 
wind  was  brisker,  the  boat  flew  faster,  the 
child  grew  gayer.  She  was  all  alone  on  the 
sea  as  far  as  her  eyes  could  reach,  except  for 
a  few  large  vessels  away  on  the  horizon, 
merchant  ships  bearing  grain  or  spice  to  the 
old  harbours  of  the  classic  world. 

The  voice  that  according  to  her  own 
fancy  was  not  herself,  but  some  bird  singing 
in  her,  rose  unconsciously  to  her  lips  as  she 
felt  happy ;  happy  in  the  sense  of  liberty,  of 
movement,  of  space,  and  air,  and  light.  She 
sang  aloud ;  all  that  sweet,  wild,  unwritten 
music  of  the  people  which  they  sing  at  mar- 
riage feasts  and  in  threshing  yards,  about 
the  forest  fires,  and  behind  the  oxen's  yoke ; 
natural  song,  pastoral  and  amorous,  that 
might  thrill  the  world  with  its  sweetness, 
only  no  Theocritus  has  arisen  amongst  these 


IN  MAREMMA.  113 

singers  to  make  fair  in  fame  this  sad  Ma- 
remma  land,  and  to  string  strophes  tliat 
would  echo  through  two  thousand  years, 
telling  stories  of  their  sorrows  of  the  sea  and 
of  their  loves  and  lives  on  land.  Centuries 
come  and  go,  and  every  winter  the  people 
sing  around  their  lires,  and  every  summer 
the  fever  wastes  them  and  they  die,  and  the 
living  still  sing  because  they  still  love ;  but 
the  world  does  not  hear  the  song.  Shelley 
and  Theocritus  are  dead. 

Musa  sang  as  the  birds  do,  as  the  people 
do,  scarce  knowing  that  she  did  so,  and  the 
clear,  tender  notes,  with  all  the  flute-like 
melody  of  extreme  youth  in  them,  echoed 
over  the  waters,  and  startled  the  rock- 
martins  working  at  their  conical  houses. 

The  child  was  happy  witliout  any  reason- 
ing or  any  consciousness  that  she  was  so,  like 
any  other  young  animal.  The  sense  of 
motion,  of  fresh  wind,  of  wide  sea,  of  being 
able  to  go  Avherever  she  chose,  and  guide 
the  boat  as  she  liked,  appeased  the  restlessness 
which  tormented  her  like  a  fever  when  she 
was  in  the  house  of  Joconda,  or  in  the 
churcli  witli  the  others,  or  wherever,  as 
she  said,  there  were  four  walls  imj)risoning 
her.      The     otlier     children     thought    her 

VOL.  I.  I 


lU  IN  MAREMMA. 

fierce  and  sullen,  tlie  women  thought  her 
dull  and  intractable,  the  priests  thought  her 
heathenish ;  but  she  was  none  of  these 
things  ;  she  was  only  a  young  creature  of 
splendid  health  and  vigour,  wdth  sentiments 
in  her  that  had  no  name,  and  found  no  home 
in  the  world  that  was  around  her :  she  was 
the  child  of  Saturnino. 

The  boat  went  thro ii oh  the  waters  swiftly, 
as  the  wind  blew  more  strongly  ;  the  sandy 
shore  with  its  scrub  of  low-growing  rock- 
rose  ^  and  prickly  Christ's-thorn  did  not 
change  its  landscape,  but  what  she  looked 
at  always  was  the  sea ;  the  sea  that  in 
the  light  had  the  smiling  azure  of  a  young 
child's  eyes,  and  wdien  the  clouds  cast 
shadows  on  it,  had  the  intense  impene- 
trable brilliancy  of  a  jewel. 

In  the  distance  were  puffs  of  white  and 
grey,  like  smoke  or  mist ;  those  mists  were 
Corsica  and  Capraja. 

Elba  towered  close  at  hand, 

Gorgona  lay  far  beyond,  with  all  the  other 
little  isles  that  seem  made  to  shelter  Miranda 
and  Ariel,  but  of  Gorgona  she  knew  nothing  ; 
she  was  steering  straight  towards  it,  but  it  was 
many  a  league  distant  on  the  northerly  water. 

^  Helianthemum  cfpenninu?n. 


IX  MAREMMA.  115 

When  slie  at  last  stopped  lier  boat  in  its 
course  she  was  at  the  Sasso  Scritto :  a  favourite 
resting-place  with  her,  where,  on  feast-days, 
when  Joconda  let  her  have  liberty  from 
housework  and  rush-plaiting  and  spinning  of 
flax,  she  always  came. 

Northward,  there  was  a  loni?  smooth 
level  beach  of  sand,  and  beyond  that  a  lagoon 
where  all  the  w^ater-birds  that  love  both  the 
sea  and  the  marsh  came  in  large  flocks,  and 
spread  their  wings  over  the  broad  spaces  in 
which  the  salt  water  and  the  fresh  were 
mingled.  Beyond  this  there  were  clifls  of 
the  humid  red  tufa,  and  the  myrtle  and  the 
holy  thorn  grew  down  their  sides,  and  met 
in  summer  the  fragrant  hesperis  of  the  shore. 

These  cliffs  were  fine  bold  blufls,  and  one 
of  them  had  been  called  from  time  imme- 
morial the  Sasso  Scritto, — why,  no  one  knew  ; 
the  only  writing  on  it  was  done  by  the 
hand  of  Nature.  It  was  steep  and  lofty  ;  on 
its  summit  were  the  ruins  of  an  old  fortress 
of  the  middle  ages  ;  its  sides  were  clothed 
with  myrtle,  aloe,  and  rosemary,  and  at  its 
feet  were  boulders  of  marble,  rose  and  white 
in  the  sun ;  rock  pools,  with  exquisite  net- 
work of  sunbeams  crossing  their  lippliug 
surface,  and  filled  with  green  ribbon-grasses 

I  2 


116  IN  MAREMMA. 


and  red  sea-foliage,  and  shining  gleams  of 
broken  porphyry,  and  pieces  of  agate  and 
cornelian. 

The  yellow  sands  hereabouts  were  bright 
just  now  with  the  sea-dafFodil,  and  the  sea- 
stocks,  which  would  blossom  later,  were 
pricking  upward  to  the  Lenten  light ;  great 
chisters  of  southern- wood  waved  in  the  wind, 
and  the  pungent  sea-rush  grew  in  long  lines 
along  the  shore,  where  the  sand-piper  was 
dropping  her  eggs,  and  the  blue-rock  was 
carrying  dry  twigs  and  grass  to  his  home  in 
the  ruins  above  or  the  caverns  beneath,  and 
the  stock-doves  in  large  companies  were 
wino'inf^  their  way  over  sea  towards  the 
Maritime  or  the  Pennine  Alps. 

This  was  a  place  that  Musa  loved,  and 
she  would  come  here  and  sit  for  hours,  and 
watch  the  roseate  cloud  of  tlie  returning 
flamingoes  winging  their  way  from  Sardinia, 
and  the  martins  busy  at  their  masonry  in  the 
cliffs,  and  the  Arctic  longipennes  going  away 
northward  as  the  weather  opened,  and  the 
stream-swallows  hunting  early  gnats  and 
frogs  on  the  water,  and  the  kingfisher  digging 
his  tortuous  underground  home  in  the  sand. 
Here  she  would  lie  for  liours  amongst  tlie 
rosemary,  and  make  silent  friendships  with  the 


/2V  MAREMMA.  117 

populations  of  the  air,  while  the  sweet  blue 
sky  was  above  her  head,  and  the  sea,  as  blue, 
stretched  away  till  it  was  lost  in  light. 

Once  up  above,  on  these  cliffs,  the  eye 
could  sweep  over  the  sea  north  and  south, 
and  the  soil  was  more  than  ever  scented 
with  that  fragrant  and  humble  blue-flowered 
shrub  of  which  the  English  madrigals  and 
glees  of  the  Stuart  and  Hanoverian  poets  so 
often  speak,  and  seem  to  smell.  Behind  the 
cliffs  stretched  moorland,  marshes,  woodland, 
intermingled,  crossed  by  many  streams,  hold- 
ing many  pools,  blue- fringed  in  May  with 
iris,  and  osier  beds,  and  vast  fields  of  reeds, 
and  breadths  of  forest  with  dense  thorny 
underwood,  where  all  wild  birds  came  in 
their  season,  and  where  all  was  quiet,  save  for 
a  bittern's  cry,  a  boar's  snort,  a  snipe's  scream, 
on  the  lands  once  crowded  with  the  multi- 
tudes that  gave  the  eagle  of  Persia  and  the 
brazen  trumpets  of  Lydia  to  the  legions  of 
Eome. 

Under  their  thickets  of  the  prickly  sloe- 
tree  and  the  sweet-smelling  bay  lay  the 
winding  ways  of  buried  cities ;  their  runlets 
of  water  rippled  where  kings  and  warriors 
slept  beneath  the  soil,  and  the  yellow 
marsh  lily,   and    the   purple   and    the   rose 


118  IN  MAREMMA. 

of  the  wind-flower  and  the  pasque-flower, 
and  the  bright  red  of  the  Easter  tulips, 
and  the  white  and  the  gold  of  the  aspho- 
dels, and  the  colours  of  a  thousand  other 
rarer  and  less  homelike  blossoms,  spread 
thek  innocent  glory  in  their  turn  to  the  sky 
and  the  breeze,  above  the  sunken  stones  of 
courts  and  gates  and  palaces  and  prisons. 

These  moors  were  almost  as  solitary  as 
the  deserts  are. 

Now  and  then,  against  the  blue  of  the 
sky  and  the  brown  of  the  wood,  there  rose 
the  shapes  of  shepherds  and  their  flocks ; 
now  and  then  herds  of  young  horses  went  by, 
fleet  and  unconscious  of  their  doom ;  now 
and  then  the  sound  of  a  rifle  cracked  the 
silence  of  the  windless  air ;  but  these  came 
but  seldom. 

Maremma  is  wide,  and  its  people  are 
scattered. 

In  autumn  and  in  winter  hunters,  shep- 
herds, swineherds,  sportsmen,  birdcatchers, 
might  spoil  the  solemn  peace  of  these  moors, 
but  in  spring  and  summer  no  human  soul 
was  seen  upon  them.  The  boar  and  the 
bufialo,  the  flamingo  and  the  roebuck,  the 
great  plover  and  the  woodcock,  reigned  alone. 

The  child  loved  them  and  came  to  them. 


IN  MAIiEMMA.  119 


Tireless,  she  would  wander  over  tlie  grass  and 
moss  and  thyme  for  hours  and  hours ;  even 
when  the  sun  was  so  strong  that  the  very 
eicalas  themselves  were  silent  against  their 
wont,  she  felt  no  harm  from  it,  and  the 
fevers  that  lurked  in  bush  and  brake  never 
touched  her ;  in  these  calm  solitary  places, 
where  she  was  alone  with  the  powerful 
creatures,  four-footed  or  winged,  that  slept 
beside  her  in  the  drowsy,  sultry  noons,  slie 
w^as  at  ease  and  happ}".  Even  in  the  sickly 
drouth  of  midsummer,  when  the  turf  was  like 
sheets  of  brass,  and  the  very  trees  seemed 
to  faint  and  pant,  she  was  well  here. 

She  tied  her  boat  now  to  a  tough  slunib 
growing  on  the  edge  of  the  shore  and  began 
to  go  inland  ;  a  slender  figure  for  her  age, 
tall,  brown,  and  lithe,  with  a  proud  dauntless 
carriage  of  her  head  and  body,  and  eyes 
that  seemed  made  like  the  ea^rle's  to  dart 
their  lio^lit  into  the  \\<i\\i  of  tlie  sun. 

The  road  she  took  now  lay  over  the 
cliffs  and  across  the  moorland  ;  although  so 
much  nobler  and  more  beautiful  than  the 
marshy  ground  that  stretched  so  drearily 
around  Santa  Tarsilla,  it  was  not  much 
healthier,  for  heavy  vapours  hung  over  it, 
and   stagnant   waters   intersected  it,  but   it 


120  IN  MAREMMA. 


had  far  more  character  and  a  hixuriant  vege- 
tation, thous^h  both  were  sombre  and  mourn- 
fill  from  the  utter  lonehness  that  prevailed 
there. 

She  went  onwards,  happy  though  soh- 
tarv%  watching  with  grave  eyes  the  flight 
of  feathered  things  and  the  movements  of 
animal  life.  She  knew  their  ways  better 
than  those  of  the  human  people  around  her 
at  Santa  Tarsilla  ;  tlie  turtle-dove  and  the 
common  coot,  the  fox  and  the  hare,  the 
mole  and  the  porcupine,  and  a  hundred 
other  tribes  that  lived  their  life  in  the  dull 
waste  once  peopled  by  the  Pelasgic  and 
Etrurian  nation — all  were  dear  to  her  and 
famihar ;  and  even  of  the  savage  boar,  the 
monarch  of  the  marshes,  she  was  never 
afraid  when  he  passed  her  with  gleaming 
tusks  and  fierce  eyes,  crushing  boughs  and 
branches  in  his  ponderous  haste,  and  pushing 
his  shaggy  crest  through  the  reeds. 

She  used  to  wish  that  she  were  he,  great, 
strong,  bold,  ruler  of  the  swamps,  hving  his 
hardy  life  under  the  oak  shadows,  and 
dying,  when  he  did  die,  with  his  front  to  the 
foe  and  his  fanofs  red  with  vencreance. 

'  Why  cannot  they  let  him  alone  ? '  she 
said  to  herself  once,  when  she  saw  hunters 


IX  MAREMMA.  121 

pursuing  liiin  witli  their  hounds  through  tlie 
hot  dank  sohtudes  that  were  his  riohtful 
kingdom.  She  had  sympathy  with  the 
hunted,  not  with  the  hunters. 

The  boar,  let  alone,  did  no  living  thing 
harm ;  he  ate  the  green  leaves,  the  wet  grass, 
the  red  reeds,  the  wdld  fruits  ;  he  only  wanted 
the  air  to  breathe,  the  moor  to  roam  over, 
the  pool  to  bathe  in.  Where  was  the  sin  of 
such  a  simple  need  ?  She  did  not  reason, 
she  only  felt,  and  the  fate  of  the  hunted  and 
innocent  brutes  seemed  a  wrong  to  her,  a 
cruel  and  wanton  wrono^. 

To-day  she  saw  a  herd  of  them,  at  a  little 
distance,  in  peace,  pushing  through  the  reedy 
thickets,  happy  in  their  own  rough  clumsy 
way,  lifting  their  bristling  manes  above  the 
flower-foam  of  the  spring-snowflakes  and 
the  Lenten  lilies. 

She  w^as  glad  to  see  them  so,  and  went 
on,  content. 

The  sun  shone,  the  birds  sang,  the  roots 
of  the  nuphar  lutea  were  beginning  to 
spread  their  broad  leaves  on  the  waters,  the 
primroses  and  daffodils  were  making  the 
sombre  earth  bright  in  many  a  nook  by  the 
shallows  and  pools.  It  wa5  in  Maremma, 
accursed  Maremma,  but  it  w\as  springtime, 


122  IK  MAREMMA. 


and  even  here  tlie  world  was  once  more 
young.  Musa  passed  singing — like  the  poet's 
Pippa. 

She  was  accursed  for  no  fault  of  her 
own,  like  her  native  Maremma,  but  it  was 
springtime  with  her  also,  for  it  was  youth. 

Suddenly  as  her  liglit  feet  went  over  hills 
and  hillocks  that  here  were  of  yellow  sand- 
stone, not  of  tufa,  and  were  clothed  and 
covered  up  in  greenery,  she  felt  the  earth 
give  way  beneath  her  ;  she  sank  through  the 
creeping- moss  and  maidenhair  up  to  her 
hips  ;  she  thought  it  was  one  of  the  innu- 
merable spots  where  stagnant  water  was 
hidden  under  foliage  and  flowers,  but  her 
feet  were  not  wet ;  it  was  not  even  mud. 
She  had  caught  hold  of  some  tangled  junipers 
as  she  felt  herself  sink,  and  by  these  raised 
herself  on  to  safer  standins^  ground.  Lookinf? 
down  to  see  whv  it  was  the  earth  had  oriven 
way,  since  there  was  no  water  and  no 
swamp,  she  saw  a  hole  in  the  ground  like  a 
fox's  earth.  It  was  into  this  hole  her  feet 
had  gone.  Thinking  always  of  the  creatures 
of  the  moorland  she  leaned  down  to  see  which 
of  them  might  have  made  his  lair  there. 

The  wood  grew  very  thickly  everywhere, 
but  the   arbutus  unedo   and    bilberry    and 


IN  MAREMMA,  123 

laurel,  the  butcher's  broom,  aud  mountain- 
box,  and  ever-prevaiUng  niarucca,  grew 
more  luxuriantly  still  above  these  mounds. 

She  stooped  nearer  and  cleared  the 
grasses  away ;  there  was  an  orifice  large 
enough  for  all  her  body  to  enter,  and  she 
saw  a  step  of  stone  down  in  the  dusk  of  the 
opening.  Musa  did  not  know  fear,  and 
enterprise  was  strong  in  her. 

With  some  difficulty  she  thrust  herself 
downward  into  the  aperture ;  and,  groping 
with  head  bent  and  shoulders  bowed,  got 
her  feet  upon  the  stone.  It  was  the  first 
step  of  a  staircase  ;  of  such  a  staircase  as  was 
hewn  roughly  and  laid  together  in  the  old 
house  of  Joconda,  to  lead  down  into  the 
cellar.  The  descent  was  difficult,  the  passage 
very  narrow ;  the  sunbeams  slanting  in 
showed  lier  the  outline  of  the  stairs,  and  she 
thrust  herself  down  them,  bruising  herself  at 
every  step. 

At  the  foot  of  this  rude  stairway  was  a 
portico,  without  doors,  and  with  the  figure 
of  a  winged  genius  holding  a  torch,  and 
of  a  couchant  lion,  carved  boldly  on  each 
side  of  it  in  the  stratified  sandstone  of  the 
rock.  Tlie  rank  growth,  overhead  and  all 
around,  of  vegetation,  made  a  labyrinth  of 


124  IK  MAREMMA. 

prickly  boughs  and  of  entangled  foliage 
before  the  porch,  as  above  the  steps.  But 
the  curiosity  and  the  interest  of  Musa  were 
awakened ;  she  knew  it  was  no  shepherd's 
dwelling,  for  their  huts  were  always  raised 
upon  the  open  soil,  conical  in  shape,  and 
thatched  with  rushes  and  ling.  She  hacked 
away  the  thorny  network  that  made  a  screen 
before  this  open  doorway,  having  in  her 
girdle  the  large  strong  knife  that  she  always 
carried  for  many  uses,  and  after  some  long 
tedious  labour,  which  tore  her  hands  and  arms 
with  many  a  thorn,  and  sent  many  a  spider 
and  beetle  and  little  snake  hurrying  from 
their  homes,  she  cleared  the  way  before  the 
opening  enough  to  pass  through  it  with  her 
shoulders  bent,  and  found  herself  in  a  small, 
square,  stone  chamber  hewn  out  of  the  rock, 
and  empty,  save  for  a  little  grey  dust  in  a 
niche  like  a  dog's  kennel,  and  an  urn  or 
vase  of  red  and  black  earthenware. 

It  looked  a  strange,  chill,  melancholy 
place ;  she  could  not  make  out  its  use  or 
object ;  there  was  no  scholar  near  to  say  to 
her,  '  this  dreary  vestibule  is  the  imitation  of 
tlie  cellula  janitoris ;  yonder  is  the  dust  of 
some  favourite  watch-dog  ;  in  the  urn,  doubt- 
less,  are  the  ashes  of  some  favoured  and 


7.Y  MARE  MM  A.  125 


faithful  slave  ;  the  master  must  lie  beyond ; 
it  was  only  the  humble  whose  bodies  were 
burned.' 

Learning'  was  not  with  her  to  slied  liulit 
on  her  from  its  lamp  ;    she  had    no  other 
cmide  than  instinct,  and  instinct   here  was 
naturally  curiosity.     In  her  temper  timidity 
had  no  place.     In  front  of  lier,  in  the  wall 
of  this  entrance-chamber  w^as  a  stone  door,  a 
double,  or,  as  it  is  commonly  termed,  fold- 
in<T   door,   ti^rht   closed.      She   crossed   the 
rock-floor  of  the  place,  while  a  great  grand- 
duke  owl,  roused  and  alarmed,  flew  heavily 
by  her,    as   owls  fly  when    daybreak  over- 
takes them,  and  strings  of  bats  hanging  to 
the  stone  jambs  of  the  roof,  clinging  to  each 
other  by  their  claws,  in  a  string,  like  so  many 
onions,    now   awakened   from    their   winter 
sleep,    swayed    to    and    fro    uneasily,    and 
uttered  their  shrill  sibilation  of  annoyance 
and  fear.     Probably  for  thousands  of  years, 
generation    after  generation    of  cheiroptera 
had  there  made  their  daily  bed,  their  winter's 
refuge,   undisturbed    by    man,    at    nightfall 
finding  their  way  through  the  tangle  of  the 
shrubs    and    flying   on   their   moth-hunting 
quest  over  the  wide  face  of  the  moor. 

*  It  is   like   the   cavern   of  S.   Giovanni 


126  IN  MAREMMA. 


Bocca  cVOro,'  she  thought ;  not  that  she  had 
much  affinity  with  holy  men  and  legends, 
but  their  histories  had  been  all  the  teaching 
she  had  received. 

All  the  while,  as  she  pondered  thus,  and 
wondered  if  she  should  find  S.  John  Chry- 
sostom  here,  with  the  glory  round  his  head, 
she  continued  her  efforts  to  miclose  the 
door,  above  the  lintel  of  which  there  was 
painted  on  the  sandstone  a  strange  winged 
shape  with  angry  countenance  and  Avreath- 
ing  curls. 

She  pushed  with  all  her  young  strength 
against  that  mysterious  barrier. 

A  strange  excitement  and  anxiety,  such 
as  she  had  never  felt,  possessed  her.  She 
longed  to  ])enetrate  the  secret  of  these 
strange  dwellings.  She  said  to  herself, 
'  Joconda  found  me  in  the  hills ;  may  be 
these  people  that  dwell  in  stone  lower  than 
the  surface  of  the  earth  are  my  own  people.' 

It  was  an  odd  fancy  that  had  come  into 
her  head,  but  she  thought  it  so  likely  that 
she  had  been  born  in  some  such  place  as 
this,  hidden  away  under  the  leaves  and  the 
furze,  where  men  could  not  reach,  nor  the 
scream  of  their  voices  intrude. 

She  had   torn   and   hacked   the   shrubs 


IN  MAREMMA.  \27 

away  from  about  the  entrance,  and  the 
hght  from  the  cloudless  skies  above  shone 
down  steadily.  She  pushed  with  her  hands 
afjainst  the  stone  with  the  innocent  un- 
reasoning  curiosity  of  a  child.  There  Avas 
no  lock  nor  bolt  upon  the  door,  nor 
were  there  any  hinges.  It  would  turn, 
if  it  turned  at  all,  in  sockets  cut  in  the 
stone  ;  and  turn  at  the  last  it  did,  slowly 
opening  as  though  some  unwilling  hand 
were  behind  it.  She  thrust  it  backwarder, 
wider  and  wider,  until  she  entered  it,  and 
stood  on  the  threshold  of  a  narrow  chamber 
hewn  in  the  dark  grey  rock ;  on  either  side 
couched  a  stone  lion.  She  entered ;  timid 
for  the  first  time  in  her  bold  brief  life. 

Around  the  walls  ran  benches  of  stone ; 
on  them  stood  vases  and  jars  in  black  ware, 
and  others  in  white  painted  pottery,  bronze 
lamps,  and  amber  ornaments,  and  strange 
little  vessels  whose  like  she  had  never  seen. 
There  was  nothing  else.  An  archway,  how- 
ever, in  the  end  wall  showed  beyond  another 
and  larger  chamber.  Curiosity  and  wonder 
mastering  fear,  the  child  passed  through  the 
first  room  and  entered  the  second. 

On  its  threshold  she  paused  entranced 
and  appalled. 


128  IN  MAREMMA. 


Upon  the  walls  of  this  spacious  place 
were  painted  figures  seated  at  a  banquet, 
dancing  before  an  altar,  leading  strange 
forest  beasts,  playing  on  lyres,  riding  on 
many-coloured  steeds :  around  them  and 
above  them  were  pictured  lotus  flowers. 

But  these  she  scarcely  saw  in  the  dim 
shadowy  atmosphere  ;  Avhat  her  gaze  was 
fastened  on,  what  made  her  tremble  in  every 
limb,  was  the  recumbent  figure,  stretched 
upon  a  bier  of  stone,  of  a  man  in  armour  of 
bronze  and  casque  of  gold  ;  a  gold  cup  stood 
beside  him  on  the  ground,  and  a  shield  of 
gold  was  on  the  bier,  and  a  golden  lamp 
was  near,  of  which  the  light  was  spent. 
About  his  helmet  was  a  diadem  of  oak -leaves 
in  gold,  and  on  his  breast  was  an  ivory 
sceptre  tipped  with  an  eagle  of  gold. 

When  the  vast,  desolate,  lonely  lands 
stretchiniy  towards  the  south  had  borne  on 
their  breast  the  towers  and  walls  and  pa- 
laces and  sepidchres  of  Yetidonia  and  Cosa, 
of  Ensellai  and  Tarquinii,  of  Ardea  and 
Norcliia,  this  man  had  been  a  magnate  of  the 
land  ;  his  women,  his  cliildren,  his  servitors, 
liis  descendants  for  mau}^  a  generation,  had 
doubtless  been  laid  in  costly  state  here, 
where  the  mastic-tree  and  the  mountain-box 


IN  MAREMMA.  129 


now  flourished  and  built  a  green  wall  be- 
tween them  and  the  world. 

Youth  laughed  and  kissed ;  ships  went 
and  came  over  the  sunny  sea  ;  street  crowds 
still  met  for  sale  and  barter ;  and  marble 
walls  still  towered  up  to  heaven  in  man's 
pretence  of  majesty  and  mockery  of  the 
imperishable  ;  in  cities,  and  ports,  human  life 
was  still  the  same  as  in  the  days  of  pride  of 
Telamon  and  Populonia,  but  little  changed 
in  substance  and  in  temper,  if  altered  in 
mere  outward  form. 

Yet,  though  all  living  mankind  were  his 
brethren,  like  unto  him  as  one  white  bean 
of  the  fields  is  like  another,  unimproved, 
unpurified — nay,  in  some  senses  far  more 
ignorant  and  unlovely  than  he — the  Etru- 
rian noble  had  no  friend  or  remembrance 
amongst  modern  multitudes,  and  all  his 
pomp  and  elegance  in  death,  and  all  his 
tenderness  for  those  he  loved,  had  failed  to 
keep  him  a  place  upon  the  earth ;  and  the 
weeds  and  the  wild  shrubs  had  covered  him, 
even  as  they  covered  the  empty  hole  of  a 
dead  snake. 

The  child,  who  knew  nothing  of  the 
great  Lydian  nation  that  had  once  reigned 
in  her  Maremma,  stood  silent  and  immovable 

VOL.  I.  K 


130  IN  MAREMMA. 


in  great  awe.  For  a  few  moments  her  eyes 
beheld  the  form  of  the  dead  warrior ;  then, 
all  in  an  instant,  it  crumbled  away  before  her 
very  sight,  riveted  in  amaze  upon  it. 

The  air  and  the  light  entering  with  her, 
after  exclusion  for  two  thousand  years  or 
more,  reached  the  oxydised  armour,  the 
recumbent  corpse,  and  melted  them  back  to 
dust.  Soon,  where  the  warrior,  who  looked 
to  her  but  sleeping,  had  been  stretched  on 
his  cold  bed,  there  was  nothing  but  a  few 
grey  ashes. 

She  stood  motionless  as  though  she 
were  changed  to  marble  ;  a  sort  of  trance 
had  fallen  upon  her  as  the  golden  king  had 
faded  into  that  heap  of  pallid  ashes.  A 
cloud  had  obscured  the  sun,  and  the  feeble 
light  that  had  reached  the  subterranean 
chamber  had  ceased  to  come  there,  the 
painted  figures  on  the  walls  faded  away  in 
the  gloom ;  it  seemed  to  be  already  night. 

She  was  afraid,  but  her  fear  had  the 
sublimity  of  awe  in  it,  and  nothing  of  the 
feebleness  of  terror.  Was  it  death  ?  was  it 
life  ?  was  it  a  god  ?  was  it  a  devil  that  was 
near  her  now  ? 

All  the  words  that  she  had  heard  in  the 
church   of  Santa   Tarsilla,  and   which   had 


7.Y  ^fAEI:^f^fA.  isi 

no  real  meaning  for  her,  thronged  on  her 
memory  now.  She  was  afraid,  but  she  was 
enthralled  ;  the  horror  that  was  upon  her 
had  both  beauty  and  tyranny  in  it. 

This  king  was  dust. 

All  his  gold  had  availed  him  nothing; 
when  the  air  or  the  light  had  touched  him, 
he  and  it  had  dissolved  and  perished. 

He  had  been  there  one  moment  before, 
and  now  was  gone  for  ever. 

An  immense  wonder  and  an  infinite  pity 
began  to  drive  the  terror  from  her  soul  and 
take  its  place.  There  was  his  place  of  rest, 
there  was  his  bed  of  stone,  and  he  was  gone, 
taking  his  treasures  with  him.  Had  they 
melted  into  the  rays  of  the  sun  and  gone  on 
the  wings  of  the  wind  ?  Why  had  he  not 
taken  her  too  ?  She  would  have  been  so 
glad  to  go. 

The  place  grew  darker  and  darker ;  for 
up  above,  in  the  world  of  the  living,  the  sun 
was  sinking  to  its  setting  into  the  deep-blue 
sea. 

Absolute  night  enshrouded  her  here ; 
the  G^reat  cold  of  the  tomb  bef]^an  to  cliill 
her  veins  and  freeze  her  heart ;  for  the  first 
time  in  all  her  fearless  young  years  slie  was 
afraid  ;  she  lon^red  for  some  hinnan  voice 

-       K  2 


132  IN  MABEMMA. 


some  toiicli  of  warm  and  moving  life,  some 
friendliness  of  animal  or  bird.  For  the 
ghastly  dread  of  the  unknown  and  of  the 
unseen  was  for  the  first  time  upon  her.  She 
tried  to  call  aloud,  but  she  was  dumb. 

A  heavy  impenetrable  darkness  seemed 
to  fall  on  her,  and  she  thought  as  it  smote 
her,  '  this  is  death ! '  That  death  which 
Joconda  had  spoken  of  that  day,  which  then 
to  her  had  been  unintelligible  and  without 
dread.  Death  had  been  here  so  long  alone 
and  in  peace,  and  she  had  broken  in  upon 
his  rest,  and  he  in  wrath  had  claimed  her. 
So  she  thought,  dully  and  feebly,  as  the 
darkness  seemed  to  bend  her  under  it  as 
under  some  falling  mountain,  and  she  lost 
all  knowledge  and  all  sight. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

!HEN  she   regained  her  conscious- 
ness, a  slender   thread   of  light 
was  shining  on  the  rocky  floor. 
It  was  a  ray  of  the  risen  moon. 
Day  was  quite  gone,  and    night  had  come 
to  bear  death  company. 

She  raised  herself  slowly  upon  her  feet, 
and  though  her  heart  beat  with  the  force  of 
hammers,  and  every  limb  quivered  with  a 
ghostly  fear,  the  courage  inborn  in  her 
roused  itself,  and  moved  her  to  struggle  for 
life  and  liberty.  The  grey  dust  lay  behind 
her,  the  dust  which  was  the  only  thing  left 
of  a  human  corpse  and  a  golden  treasure. 
But  the  dust  to  her  was  neither  warrior  nor 
gold  ;  to  her  the  dead  man  had  arisen  at  the 
touch   of  the  sunbeams,  and  liad  gone  out 


134  IN  MAREMMA, 

away  into  the  light,  and  had  left  her  alone 
in  his  place. 

The  great  fear  Avas  still  upon  her  like 
frost  upon  a  flower. 

She  could  not  understand  what  she  had 
seen.  She  could  not  comprehend  what  place 
this  was  in  which  she  stood.  But  the  instinct 
of  revivino"  life  made  her  lons^  to  rise  and 
flee ;  it  put  strength  into  her  limbs  and 
courage  into  her  veins  ;  she  dragged  herself 
towards  the  entrance,  thrust  herself  through 
the  narrow  aperture,  and  forced  herself  once 
more  up  into  the  air,  under  the  open  sky. 

When  she  sa^v^  the  bushes  around  her 
and  the  stars  above,  she  gave  a  cry  of  joy  ; 
they  were  familiar,  they  were  friends. 

She  breathed  asrain. 

o 

She  felt  no  fear  of  the  fresh  night,  of  the 
lonelv  moors,  of  the  silence  and  the  solitude 
of  these  marshes  that  stretched  around. 
She  knew  them  all.  When  the  bats  flew 
by  her,  and  the  owls,  she  stretched  out  her 
hand  to  them  and  laughed  aloud. 

After  that  awful  silence,  that  intense 
cold,  tliat  terrible  nameless  burial-place,  the 
moles  burrowing;  in  the  black  earth,  the 
water-beetle  blunderins:  throuerh  the  sliadows, 
the    stealthy   polecat  hunting   rats   through 


IX  MAREMMA. 


the  prickly  punr/ente,^  the  common  snipe 
forao'inGf  for  skio^s  and  snails  amonorst  the 
sharp  spines  of  the  water-soldier,  the  wood- 
cock winging  his  way  against  the  wind  as 
he  likes  best  to  do,  the  great  plover  trotting 
to  the  marsh  to  drink,  these  were  all  dear 
companions,  welcome  as  the  air. 

She  made  her  way  quickly  over  the 
solitary  moor  down  to  the  beach.  Some  far- 
off  bell  from  a  church  far  inland  on  the 
waste  was  tolling  for  vespers  ;  the  night  was 
clear  and  cold.  She  found  her  boat  safe,  and 
unmoored  it  and  rowed  backward.  There 
was  no  wind,  and  the  way  seemed  very  long. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt  terrified 
and  feeble.  TJie  sea  looked  so  wide  and  the 
heavens  so  vast. 

The  moon  was  full  and  of  a  deep  gold 
colour ;  she  wondered  was  it  the  dead  man's 
golden  shield  that  lay  in  the  tomb  all  day 
and  at  night  was  held  up  there  by  unseen 
hands?  A  golden  shooting-star  flashed 
down  the  west ;  she  thought  it  was  the  dead 
man's  vanished  spear. 

The  dead  had  risen  and  fled. 

Was  he  there  in  the  lustre  of  the  sky  ? 

The  great  fear  went  with  her  like  a  pur- 

^  Scarjriurui)  innricdtn. 


136  IJV  MAREMMA. 


suing  shadow,  yet  an  immense  longing,  an 
intense  eagerness,  were  with  her  too  ;  if  only 
she  could  go  where  he  was  gone,  if  only 
she  could  know  that  mystery ! 

But  she  could  only  bend  over  her  oars 
and  send  her  boat  through  the  phospho- 
rescent calm  of  tranquil  water.  I^either  sea 
nor  sky  answered  her. 

When  she  reached  Santa  Tarsilla,  the 
village  was  all  dark.  It  was  midnight.  The 
fishing  smacks  were  still  out,  far  away  by 
many  a  mile,  and  the  men  with  them. 
The  women  and  children  slept.  She  fastened 
the  boat  to  its  iron  ring  in  the  stone  landing, 
and  went  slowly  ashore. 

On  the  edge  of  the  little  water- worn  low 
pier  an  old  woman  stood  and  a  wdiite  dog  ; 
the  dog  rushed  to  her,  the  woman  cried 
angrily,  'Wliy  give  us  this  fright?  I  bid 
you  always  be  in  at  moonrise.  I  have  been 
here  for  hours,  looking,  looking,  looking, 
while  Leone  howled ' 

'  It  was  not  my  fault,'  said  the  child  in  a 
low  tone.     '  I  have  seen  strange  things.' 

'  Pray  God  you  have  not  seen  your 
father,'  thought  Joconda,  as  she  said  aloud, 
'  Come  to  the  house  ;  you  must  be  hungry.' 

'  No,'  said  Musa ;  but  she  went  with  Jo- 


IN  MAREMMA.  137 

conda  homeward,  and  when  she  got  there 
drank  thirstily ;  she  could  not  eat.  Joconda 
waited  for  her  to  speak  in  vain. 

'  What  have  you  seen  ?  '  she  asked  at 
last. 

'  I  have  seen  Death,  and  it  is  beautiful,' 
the  child  answered  wearily. 

'  Beautiful  ?  '  said  Joconda.  '  Child,  you 
have  not  yet  seen  what  you  love  die  !  Do 
not  speak  in  riddles.    What  have  you  seen  ?  ' 

Musa  told  her  what  she  had  seen ;  speak- 
ing in  a  hushed  strange  voice,  and  with  pain. 

'  Is  that  all  ?  '  said  Joconda,  when  she 
had  ended.  '  That  is  nothing.  You  stum- 
bled on  a  grave.  I  know  those  people. 
They  are  underneath  the  soil  everywhere 
hereabouts.  We  call  them  buche  delle  fate. 
They  were  great  people  once,  I  have 
heard  tell,  who  had  cities  and  palaces  and 
the  like,  and  all  is  covered  with  thistles 
and  thorns  now ;  they  buried  their  gold 
with  them,  but  it  did  them  no  good.  There 
are  plenty  of  their  graves  all  over  the 
country,  and  treasure  is  dug  out  of  them. 
But  it  is  not  well  to  rob  the  dead.  For 
me  I  would  not  do  so.     You  took  nothing  ?  ' 

'  I  ?  It  all  went  away  with  him  ;  went 
away  into  the  air.' 


138  IX  MAREMMA. 

'  That  is  folly,'  said  Joconda,  '  and  if  you 
talk  of  it  so,  none  will  believe  you ;  they 
will  say  you  have  robbed  the  tomb,  and 
there  will  be  bad  work,  and  I  am  not  sure 
to  whom  that  waste  land  belongs.  Say 
nothing.  That  will  be  best.  You  have  seen 
something,  surely,  for  you  look  scared,  but 
to  say  the  gold  and  the  dead  went  into  the 
air  is  folly.' 

'  I  say  the  truth,'  said  the  child. 

'  You  slept  and  dreamed,  and  I  am  tired. 
Get  you  to  bed.     It  is  midnight.' 

'  But  who  were  those  dead  people  ?  ' 

'  That  I  do  not  know,  and  what  does  it 
matter?     Poor  souls — their  day  is  done.' 

'  But  the  earth-r-is  it  all  a  grave  ?  ' 

'  Ay ;  and  we  shall  be  in  it ;  no  fear 
of  our  not  having  our  turn  ;  I  almost  wish 
you  had  brought  a  bit  of  the  gold  if  you 
really  did  see  it,  not  that  it  Avould  have  been 
right.' 

'  Did  God  make  men  and  women  ? '  she 
asked,  meeting  the  eyes  of  Joconda,  who 
answered  testily — 

'  Por  sure,  and  He  might  have  made 
them  better  when  He  was  after  it.' 

'He  must  have  been  more  glad  when 
He   made  the   coral  in  the  deep   sea,  and 


ly  MAREMMA.  139 

set  the  lilies  in  the  pools,'  said   the   child 
wearily. 

Joconda  sighed  and  stared. 

'  Aye,  there  is  nothing  to  make  Him  glad 
in  any  of  us.  The  wicked  never  cease  from 
troubling,  and  the  whitest  souls  are  but 
greyish  and  spotted,  like  a  fungus  in  a  wood 
Sometimes  I  have  thought  myself  He  must 
repent.  But  I  talk  wickedly.  Have  you 
lain  in  moonlight,  child,  that  you  say  such 
odd  thino's  ? ' 

Musa  was  silent. 

'  I  think  those  people  are  my  kindred,' 
she  said  under  her  breath  to  Joconda,  who 
replied  : 

'  Well,  they  may  be ;  no  one  knows 
whence  you  come  ; '  and  said  to  herself,  to 
excuse  the  lie  to  her  conscience,  '  and  no 
one  does,  for  I  never  heard  tell  who  Serapia's 
people  were  ;  some  said  one  thing  and  some 
another.' 

'  But  how  did  I  come  to  you  ? '  said 
Musa,  with  that  direct  question  which  Jo- 
conda had  always  dreaded. 

'  I  picked  you  up  on  the  hills  in  chest- 
nut-time,' said  Joconda  ;  and  said  to  herself, 
'  and  that  certainly  is  true.' 

Musa   asked   no   more.      Her   thouglits 


140  m  MAREMMA. 


were  with  all  those  dead  people  under  the 
ground,  whose  gold  outlived  them. 

Her  great  eyes  looked  up  through  the 
unglazed  window  to  red  Arcturus  shining  in 
the  constellation  of  Bootes. 

'  Do  the  dead  sleep  all  day  in  the  dark 
in  the  earth  and  at  night  shine  in  there  ? ' 
she  asked,  gazing  at  silvery  Spica  hanging 
above  the  sea. 

Joconda  pushed  her  to  her  bed. 

'  Leave  the  dead  alone.  You  have  just 
begun  to  live.  Get  you  to  bed,  for  it  is  late 
and  oil  is  dear.  If  you  had  brought  a  little 
bit  of  the  gold  now — God  forbid  I  should 
tell  you  to  steal,  but  the  dead  are  dead  and 
it  could  not  have  harmed  them.' 

The  child  lay  down  and  turned  her  face 
to  the  wall :  her  cheeks  were  wet  w^ith 
tears. 


CHAPTER  VIL 


^E  child  never  after  that  night 
spoke  of  what  she  had  seen  in 
the  tomb.  She  shut  it  in  her 
thoughts  with  many  another  thing, 
and  did  not  share  it.  But  her  mind  w^as  con- 
stantly busy  with  these  dead  people,  who  all 
slept  on  their  beds  of  rock  and  when  the  air 
touched  them  fled.  She  longed  to  see  them, 
know  of  them,  go  with  them. 

There  was  no  one  to  tell  her  anything. 
In  this  ancient  land  of  theirs  no  one  knew 
of  the  Etruscans.  Strangers  came  and  dug 
indeed  about  the  Maremma,  and  rifled  the 
graves  that  they  found,  this  they  knew,  but 
there  were  no  graves  known  of  at  Santa 
Tarsilla,  and  the  subject  had  no  interest  for 
them,   and    was   not   even    intelligible.     In 


142  IN  MAREMMA. 


other  parts  the  scattered  peasantry  here  and 
there  made  a  httle  money  as  custodians  of 
the  opened  tombs,  and  wondered  to  see 
travellers  ford  bridi^eless  streams  and  force 
a  difficult  way  through  the  prickles  merely  to 
see  painted  caves  with  coffins  of  stone. 

But  there  were  none  of  these  near  at 
hand,  and  Santa  Tarsilla  knew  nothing  but 
of  its  own  fever,  its  own  fishing,  and  its  own 
smuggling,  carried  on  under  the  very  e3'es 
of  the  sickly  coastguard  in  a  small  way,  but 
successfully ;    Santa   Tarsilla   within   a   few 


miles  of  Cosa  and  Vetulonia  knew  nothinor 
of  Etruria. 

Tliat  Joconda  knew  anything  was  be- 
cause she  was  a  northern  woman,  and  so 
had  keen  use  of  both  her  eyes  and  ears,  and 
coming  and  going  to  and  from  Grosseto 
through  fifty  long  years  had  gathered  many 
a  quaint  random  scrap  of  information,  and 
remembered  it  even  when  she  could  make 
but  little  of  it. 

Musa  had  a  strong  visionary  fancy, 
though  no  poet  read  or  history  studied  had 
fed  it.  All  she  had  ever  liad  to  nourish  it 
were  tlie  songs  and  improvisations  of  the 
foresters  and  mountaineers,  when,  with 
autumn    and    spring-time,  they   came   into 


IN  MAREMMA.  143 


Santa  Tarsilla  on  their  way  to  and  from  the 
woods  and  hills ;  rough  men  and  wild,  but 
often  eloquent,  making  their  lutes  sound 
sweetly  by  the  side  of  the  moonlit  sea,  or 
rolling  out  strophe  and  antistrophe,  uncon- 
scious of  their  harmonies,  as  the  wave  broke 
upon  the  sand. 

Her  fancy,  untrained  but  strong,  like  the 
wild  '  mother  of  the  woods '  that  brou^^ht 
forth  its  blossoms  unseen  over  the  w^aste 
around,  made  of  the  dead  Etruscans  her 
own  nation,  and  of  their  subterranean  graves 
her  temple. 

'  You  live  too  much  with  these  dead 
people,  child,'  said  Joconda  to  her. 

'  They  do  me  no  harm,'  saidMusa.  '  The 
hving  make  me  angry  often,  and  I  strike 
them  sometimes;  the  dead  make  me  ashamed 
that  I  am  ever  wicked.' 

'  They  were  wicked  enough  themselves, 
most  like,'  grumbled  Joconda.  '  I  will  be 
bound  men  and  women  have  never  differed 
much.' 

'  They  do  me  good,'  said  Musa  ;  and  she 
said  no  more. 

They  were  sacred  to  her.  She  could 
not  have  put  into  words  what  she  felt,  but 
it   was   very   strong  in  her,    this   sense  of 


144  IJV  MAREMMA. 


tenderness,  of  kinship,  of  reverence,  with 
which  the  lonely  tombs  moved  her. 

Musa  in  her  utter  ignorance  would  not 
for  her  hfe  have  robbed  of  an  ounce  of  gold 
or  a  vase  of  clay  these  dead  sleepers  of  a 
sleep  of  three  thousand  years. 

She  was  jealous  over  them,  she  wor- 
shipped them,  they  were  her  idols  ;  let  others 
have  their  saints  as  they  would,  she  had 
never  cared  for  the  saints  ;  she  cared  for 
these  ghostly  hosts  who  filled  the  under 
chambers  of  the  earth  and  waited  so  calmly, 
so  patiently,  with  the  oak  and  the  thorn  and 
the  myrtle  growing  above  their  heads. 

On  all  the  earth  there  is  in  truth  nothing 
so  intensely  sad,  so  intensely  solemn,  as  the 
thought  of  the  buried  cities  that  lie  with 
their  buried  millions  under  the  hurrying  feet 
of  living  multitudes,  or  lost  in  the  green 
silences  where  orchids  bloom,  and  the  thorn 
of  Christ  puts  forth  its  golden  flowers,  and 
the  dragon-flies  spread  gossamer  wings  above 
the  fritillaria  and  fraxinella.  As  scholars 
know,  she  knew  nothing  of  them ;  but  as 
poets  feel  for  them,  she  felt. 

Whenever  Musa  had  a  day  of  freedom, 
fascinated  by  her  very  fear,  she  went  to  the 
spot  on  the  moor  where  she  had  found  the 


IN  MARl^MMA.  Ui 


sleeping  \varrior.  The  place  had  awe  and 
seduction  for  her  stronger  than  anything 
else,  even  stronger  than  the  sea.  She  felt 
that  the  earth  held  a  mystery,  a  Avhole  inner 
world  of  mute  motionless  creatures. 

Of  death  she  had  never  thought  except 
on  that  one  day  when  Joconda  had  spoken  of 
dying.  She  had  seen  the  dull  black  bier  go 
by  borne  by  the  beccamorti ;  she  had  seen 
the  torches  flare  as  the  dead  went  home,  and 
knew  that  they  were  put  away  underground, 
and  wondered  that  they  were  not  thrown  into 
the  sea.  Children,  who  had  been  at  play  on 
the  shore  beside  her  one  week,  the  next  were 
dead  of  fever,  and  were  buried ;  that  she 
knew  very  well,  but  she  had  never  thought 
about  it.  These  skeletons  on  their  beds  of 
rock  were  the  first  creatures  that  made  her 
think  of  the  fate  that  waits  for  every  living 
thing. 

Was  he  dead  indeed,  that  hero  robed  in 
golden  beauty,  who  had  passed  out  under  the 
stars  and  been  seen  no  more  ?  Then  death 
could  not  be  terrible,  she  thought ;  to  lie 
still  undisturbed  till  you  went  out  to  the 
stars  and  the  clouds,  that  was  so  sweet  and 
grand,  no  one  need  fear  it. 

She  conquered  her  first  terror  and  went 

VOL.  I.  L 


146  IN  MAREMMA. 

ao^aiu  and  ao-ain  to  tlie  tomb.  There  was 
the  couch  of  rock,  the  floor,  the  walls, 
the  faintly  coloured  banquet,  but  the  hero 
returned  no  more.  When  the  day  was 
bright  and  noon  was  high  she  would  go 
down  out  of  its  heat  and  light  into  the  gloom 
of  that  cold  chamber  and  sit  upon  the  bed 
that  die  dead  had  left  and  watch,  always 
vaguely  and  wistfully,  hoping  he  would 
return  to  tell  her  all  the  secrets  of  the  grave, 
all  the  glories  of  the  skies. 

Beyond  this  chamber  in  which  the 
Lucumo  and  his  treasures  had  lain,  an  open 
stone  door  led  to  another  room  of  the  same 
dimensions,  and  from  that  again,  beyond 
other  doors  of  stone,  opened  out  two  cells, 
divided  by  a  wall  of  the  natural  rock.  In 
all  these  three  tliere  were,  as  she  saw,  not 
then  but  in  after  days,  stone  benches  and 
stone  chairs,  dust-covered.  The  dust  had 
once  been  human  bones. 

Here,  too,  there  were  painted  jars  and 
bowls,  bronze  candelaljra  and  utensils  of 
beautiful  workmanship  and  exquisite  form, 
ivory  and  enamel  toys,  glass  and  gold 
necklaces  and  clasps  and  brooches,  amber 
amulets,  and  jewellery  and  rings.  The 
walls   and   the  roofs   also   of  these    tombs 


IX  MAUEMyfA.  147 


were  painted.  In  one,  Mantus  and  Mania 
lield  dread  court  of  judgment ;  on  another 
tlie  twelve  gods  sat  in  council  ;  here 
the  lotus  and  the  bidlrush  sprang  to  life, 
and  Etruscan  boys  danced  and  leapt  and 
strung  the  lyre ;  there  Cupa  and  Horta 
sported  amidst  flowers,  and  Vertumnus  was 
crowned  with  fruit. 

The  graves  had  doubtless  all  belonged  to 
the  same  famih%  that  of  the  great  Lucumo, 
whose  skeleton  and  armour  had  melted  and 
vanished  at  the  first  touch  of  air.  Possibly 
he  had  been  one  of  the  forgotten  kings  of 
the  Tyrrhene  people  ;  certainly  he  had  been 
some  mighty  warrior-prince,  since  he  had 
liad  the  corona  etvusca  about  his  casque,  and 
the  eagle  with  spread  wings  upon  his  ivory 
sceptre. 

The  shape  and  sentiment  of  Greek  art 
.were  visible  on  all  the  ornaments  of  his 
burial  chaml^er  ;  the  painted  vases  were  all  of 
Greek  taste,  polychrome  and  decorated  with 
divine  figures  or  groups  of  fruits  or  ilowers  ; 
such  vases  as  are  oftener  found  in  Athens 
than  Etruria.  Probably  this  necropolis  had 
been  contemporary  with,  or  somewhat 
earlier  than,  Alexander  of  Macedon. 

The  tombs  had  been  undiscovered  alike 

L   2 


148  IN  MABEMMA. 

by  Eoman  or  Gotliic  greed  of  gold,  and 
modern  scieiice  liad  not  dreamed  of  their 
existence,  even  whilst  busied  in  the  excava- 
tions of  Cyclopean  Cosa,  near  at  hand, 
southward,  on  the  same  seashore.  Doubt- 
less other  sepulchres  adjoined  these,  made 
under  the  same  low  swell  of  friable  sand- 
stone cliffs  and  hillocks,  but  any  others  were 
grown  over  by  brushwood,  and  engulfed  in 
earth  disturbed  by  volcanic  action,  no  trace 
of  them,  or  of  any  opening  that  miglit  have 
led  to  them,  was  ever  found,  even  though  in 
after  days  Musa  searched  diligently  and  often. 
They  were  lost  as  utterly  as  the  vast  laby- 
rinth of  Porsenna  is  lost ;  only  the  janitor's 
room  had  been  left  some  little  connection 
with  the  upper  earth,  and  outer  soil,  by  the 
passage  of  wild  animals,  who  had  found 
through  the  ever-open  door  of  the  entrance- 
cell  a  lair  of  safety. 

Their  lonely  territory  was  southward  of 
the  great  lake  that  the  Eomans  called  Lacus 
Aprilis,  along  whose  shore  the  Aurelian 
Way  once  was  made ;  it  was  northward 
of  the  weird  rocks  of  Monte  Argentaro, 
and  shared  in  the  rich  sylva  and  flora 
which  the  central  part  of  the  Maremma 
possesses,  in  that  grander  and  virginal  aspect 


IN  MARE  MM  A.  149 

which  tlie  province  between  the  rivers  of 
Onibrone  and  Fiora  owes  to  the  forests  of 
pine,  of  ilex,  of  cork,  of  oak,  of  manna-asli, 
and  of  locust-tree  which  clothe  the  slopes 
beneath  the  Apennines ;  to  the  wilderness  of 
evergreen  trees  and  shrubs  that  cover  in  their 
verdure  and  dusky  glooin  the  ruins  of  Eoman 
roads,  of  Latin  castles,  of  Tyrrhene  towns  and 
sepulchres ;  to  tlie  innumerable  pools  and 
streams  and  lakes  which  are  hidden  away 
under  impenetrable  thickets,  and  known 
only  to  the  sultan-hen  and  the  wild  duck, 
the  nocturnal  plover  and  the  common  coot 
Away  to  the  southward  stretched  vast  grass- 
lands, peopled  solely  by  the  melancholy 
buffalo,  covered  in  spring  with  the  elysian 
asphodel ;  and  the  dreary,  solemn,  almost 
treeless  moors,  walled  in  from  the  east  by 
sombre  mountain  heights,  and  covering  be- 
neath their  soil  lost  Ansedonia  and  perished 
Cosa,  and  the  tombs  of  the  Tarquins,  and  the 
moats  and  ramparts  of  the  once  mighty  Ardea, 
and  many  another  perished  greatness  of  whicli 
the  very  name  had  been  forgotten  even  in 
Virgil's  generation. 

Between  the  moors  and  the  sea  stretclicd 
all  along  the  coast  a  yellow  sandy  beacli, 
or  a  wide  algae-strewn  swamp,  or  a  rocky 


150  IN  MAREMMA. 

stony  waste  bearing  the  traces  still  of  the 
ancient  Consular  way. 

From  tlie  hills  and  mounds  of  sand- 
stone, covered  with  mountain- box  and 
juniper  bushes,  that  swelled  up  low  and 
long  in  a  ridge  that  traversed  the  part 
of  the  moorland  which  she  so  especially 
haunted,  the  child,  looking  north  and  south, 
could  see  the  whole  coast-line  from  the 
deep  semicircular  bay  to  the  eastward, 
enclosed  between  Populonia  and  the  Cape  of 
Troja,  and  facing  the  peaks  of  Elba,  to  the 
south-westward  where  Telamone  had  been  a 
crowded  port,  and  where  once  the  great 
Argo  herself  had  anchored,  yet  where  now 
even  the  little  coasters,  that  drew  but  two  feet 
of  water,  often  ran  aground,  and  dull  Orbe- 
tello  sheltered  a  dreary  life  of  sickly  soldiers 
and  of  sullen  coasti]^uards  and  of  listless 
people  picking  the  salt  crystals  from  the 
soil. 

Over  that  blue  sea,  where  once  the 
Argonauts  sailed,  and  the  Etruscan  pirates 
hunted  the  Latin  galleys,  and  the  merchant 
vessels  went  out  from  the  grand  and  busy 
ports  laden  with  the  Lydian  wool,  the  iron- 
work that  Eome  deemed  of  even  more  worth 
than  men,  the  silver  and  the  gold  chasings 


m  MABEMMA.  161 


that  Greece  eagerly  bought  and  could  not 
equal,  tlie  yellow  grain  that  made  Marenima 
then,  as  now,  the  granary  of  Italy,  over  tliat 
blue  sea  there  still  came  stately  ships  bound 
for  Athens  or  for  Asia,  fleets  of  fishing  craft 
with  their  lateen  sails  curved  and  white  in 
the  summer  sun,  brigs  laden  to  tlie  water- 
line  with  carc^o  and  steerino;  strai<]rht  for 
Africa.  But  on  the  land,  the  wondrous, 
mysterious,  memory-haunted  land,  where 
the  lost  cities  lay  under  the  forests,  and 
the  labyrinths  of  endless  cemeteries  wound 
beneath  the  sand  and  turf,  tliere  scarce 
any  sign  of  human  life  was  ever  to  be 
seen,  save  when  a  mounted  sheplierd  on  his 
wild  and  shaggy  liorse  rode  in  amongst  the 
herds  of  buffalo — a  true  son  still  of  the 
fierce  Etruscan  jk76'^o;7'  whom  even  Eome 
confessed  none  could  war  with  and  none 
could  win  without. 

True,  not  very  far  off  there  were  the 
ironworkers  of  Follonica  beatincj  the  ore 
of  Elba  into  sliape,  in  tlie  only  vigorous 
work  to  be  found  along  tlie  coast-line,  true 
sons  of  the  Etruscan  Sethlans,  who  were 
said  to  be  rough,  coarse,  ill  company  enough 
if  met  away  from  their  sweltering  furnaces. 
But   of  the  smiths   of  l^ollonica   she  knew 


162  IN  MAREMMA. 

no   more   than   she   knew  of  the  Etruscan 
Vulcan. 

Another  year  went  by,  and  the  girl  grew 
taller  and  stronger,  and  had  Santa  Tarsilla 
counted  young  men  amidst  its  population, 
they  would  have  looked  full  well  and  often 
at  that  dark  yet  luminous  face  that  vzas  by 
old  Joconda's  side  in  the  morning  mist  and 
the  troubled  sunlight  of  the  dull  church  at 
time  of  mass.  Joconda  kept  her  close,  and 
encouraged  her  to  be  silent.  Joconda  was 
not  loquacious  like  those  chatterers  of  the 
seaboard,  and  she  always  thought  that 
no  harm  could  come  from  holding  your 
tongue,  thouirh  much  might  come  '  from 
wagging  it. 

At  fifteen,  Musa,  as  she  was  now  oftenest 
called,  and  would  be  called  in  Santa  Tarsilla 
if  she  lived  in  it  a  century,  was  a  noble- 
looking  and  beautiful  creature,  with  pride 
in  her  glance,  and  more  still  of  shyness, 
with  a  bearing  royal  in  its  calmness  and  its 
freedom,  and  an  untamed  and  sombre  spirit 
in  her  blood. 

When  old  Andreino  saw  her  at  his  tiller 
or  from  his  boat's  side  looked  down  at  her 
as  she  lifted  her  bronze-hued,  loose-curled 
head,  like  a  young  god's,  out  of  the  waters, 


IN  MARE  MM  A.  153 

he  would  say  to  himself,  '  that  suits  her 
better  than  distaff  and  missal ;  there  is  the 
courage  of  sea-lions  in  her.' 

But  going  to  mass  by  Joconda's  side, 
with  her  cross  on  her  breast  and  her  palm- 
branch  in  her  hand,  at  Easter-time,  she  looked 
but  a  girl,  simple,  silent,  docile,  wise  in  some 
things  beyond  her  age ;  yet  she  seemed  out 
of  keeping  with  tlie  place  and  with  the 
people ;  and  the  old  woman  would  glance  at 
her,  and  think,  '  would  not  one  know  tliere 
was  wild  blood  there  P '  and  feel  her  own 
lieart  heavy  as  she  looked. 

She  had  been  brought  up  in  the  best 
ways  Joconda  knew;  taught  cleanliness, 
truthfulness,  and  industr}^  could  spin  well 
and  be  useful  in  the  house,  thousfh  she  hated 
confinement  under  a  roof,  and  the  moment 
she  was  set  free  rushed  to  the  air  like  a  bird 
loosed  from  a  cage. 

Whether  she  had  affection  in  lier  or  not, 
Joconda  could  not  tell ;  the  only  creature 
she  ever  caressed  was  the  Molossus  dog. 

As  for  learning,  she  had  little.  She 
could  read  slowly,  and  she  could  write  very 
badly ;  this  was  all  that  she  had  been  forced 
to  do.  But  she  could,  as  she  said,  steer  and 
row  like  the  best  of  them  ;    she  could  take 


154  72V  MAREMMA. 

the  helm  of  a  felucca  and  bring  it  safely  in 
over  the  algas-lieaps  and  dangerous  shallows 
of  the  choked  harbour ;  she  could  fling  a 
net  with  force  and  skill,  though  when  it  was 
full  of  shining,  struggling  little  fish,  she  often 
liked  to  loose  it  and  let  them  all  slide  back 
whence  they  came ;  and  furthermore  she 
could  sing  all  the  rispetti  and  stornelli  of  the 
Maremmano  shore  to  the  throbbino-  strin^js 
of  an  old  lute,  which  Joconda's  sons  in  their 
short  lives  had  loved  to  make  music  with, 
when  they  came  homo  from  tlie  coral  fish- 
m^.  The  chords  of  that  lute  and  the  clear 
voice  from  her  young  tln^oat  were  the  only 
melody  that  ever  enlivened  the  damp  hot 
nights,  when  the  scirocco  was  filling  the 
sorry  houses  with  sand  and  the  haze  on  the 
sea  hid  the  m-een  Giojho  isle. 

Even  her  singing  took  its  character  from 
the  melancholy  and  abandonment  that  cha- 
racterised the  land  and  the  water,  and  it 
was  rarely  that  she  chose  other  themes  than 
the  passionate  lainents  of  the  provincial 
canzoni,  for  those  who  go  far  out  to  sea  at 
risk  of  life,  or  for  the  faithless  mountaineer 
who  leaves  amara  Maremma  without  a  sigh 
or  a  backward  look,  or  than,  more  tragic  and 
more  terrible  still,  that  tale  of  Pia  Tolomei, 


IN  MAREMMA.  155 

whose  despair  lias  eclioed  through  so  many 
centuries,  and  wliose  history  still  often  makes 
the  theme  of  their  song  to  the  mariners  and 
the  marsh  labourers  of  the  Orbetellano,  of 
Massa  Marittima,  and  of  the  Patrimony  of 
S.  Peter,  as  the  lower  part  of  the  province  is 
still  called. 

But  when  she  sano-  of  love  and  all  its 
sorrows,  she  knew  nothinn^  of  the  meaninf?  of 
the  words ;  and  she  liked  better  songs  of 
war  and  death.     When  she  sang 

Tortorella  c'lia  pcrso  la  compagna 
Di  giorno  e  notte  va  melanconesca, 

she  did  not  understand  why  any  one  should 
grieve  to  be  alone ;  when  she  sang 

Come  volete  faccia  che  noii  pianga 
Sapendo  che  da  voi  devo  partire  ? 
E  tu,  bello,  in  Maremma,  ed  io'n  montagna, 
Questa  partenza  mi  fara  morirc, 

it  seemed  to  her  but  ])oor  and  feeble  non- 
sense. And  yet  her  voice  gave  intensest 
passion  and  longing  to  the  words  ;  and  when 
she  sang 

Andai  a  bere  alia  fonte  d'Amorc, 

Joconda  shook  her  head  and  thought  with 
wistful  pain, — 


156  IN  MAREMMA. 

'  Ah,  you  will  drink  indeed,  one  day  ; 
drink  so  deep  that  you  will  drown ! ' 

Joconda  was  always  anxious  and  troubled 
lest  anyhow  she  had  missed  the  way,  and 
done  less  than  she  might  in  tlie  fulfilHng 
of  Saturnino's  trust.  The  man  was  but  a 
galley-slave,  a  thief,  a  murderer ;  but 
Joconda  was  faithful  to  him  as  though  he 
had  been  a  king. 

She  was  always  anxious.  The  Mastarna, 
of  whom  there  were  none  living  save  this 
child  and  the  galley-slave,  had  all  died  by 
violent  deaths,  the  deaths  of  hunters,  of 
smugglers,  or  of  brigands  ;  of  Serapia's 
people  she  knew  nothing,  but  report  had 
spoken  of  that  dead  woman  as  of  a  beauti- 
ful light  voluptuous  fool.  From  both  sides 
there  was  dangerous  heritage — dark  prece- 
dent. The  old  woman,  v/ith  her  tender 
conscience  and  her  upright  soul,  was  always 
harassed  with  fear. 

Musa  had  a  great  skill  at  rythmical  im- 
provisations. 

Silent  at  other  times,  with  a  silence  that 
was  in  strong  contrast  with  the  loquacity  of 
those  around  her,  she  would  at  times,  when 
the  fit  fell  on  her.,  recite  in  the  terza  rima  or 
the  more  difficult  ottavo,  poems  of  her  own 


m  mahi^mma.  157 

on  every  theme  wliicli  came  before  her  eye : 
poems  that  the  next  hour  she  forgot  as  utterly 
as  the  niditinf^ale  for<]^ets  no  doubt  the  trills 
that  he  sets  rippling  through  the  night  under 
the  myrtle  and  the  bay  leaves.  It  is  not  an 
uncommon  gift ;  in  country  places  where  the 
dreary  levelling  parrot-learning  of  the  towns 
has  not  touched  and  destroyed  the  natural 
original  powers  of  the  people,  this  trick  of 
musical  language,  of  words  that  burn,  and 
paint  their  pictures  with  fire  of  passionate 
and  just  recital,  still  refreshes  and  adorns  the 
life  of  the  labourer  of  the  cornlands  and  the 
fishing  villages  and  the  old  grey  farm-houses, 
set  high  on  a  ledge  of  Cai-rara  or  Sabine 
hills  and  the  fragrant  orange  thickets,  and 
the  sombre  calm  woods  of  Sardinia  or 
Apulia.  Where  the  Italian  has  not  been 
dulled,  stiffened,  corroded,  debased  by  the 
levelling  and  impoverishing  influences  of 
modern  civilisation,  there  is  he  always 
classic,  eloquent,  ardent,  graceful  in  body 
and  mind  ;  there  is  he  still  half  a  Greek,  and 
wholly  a  sylvan  creature. 

Musa,  with  her  old  mandoline  with  its 
ivory  keys  across  her  knee,  and  her  brown 
hand  every  now  and  then  calling  the  sleeping 
music   from    its    strings,    had   moments   of 


158  2A^  MAREMMA. 


inspiration  like  any  pythoness  of  old,  and  at 
sucli  times  lier  eyes  flashed,  her  lips  grew 
eloquent,  her  colour  came  and  went,  her 
voice  rose  in  cadence  that  stirred  the  sluggish 
sickly  souls  around  her  with  joy  and  with 
terror.  All  the  fire  and  the  force  that  were 
in  her  blood  came  out  of  prison  in  those  reci- 
tations, and,  listening  to  her,  Joconda  thought, 
with  a  shudder, '  that  is  Saturnino  who  speaks 
so,  of  love,  and  hate,  and  war,  and  death ! ' 

A  thousand  memories  that  were  not  of 
her  life,  yet  seemed  of  her  remembrance, 
thronged  on  the  child  at  such  hours.  She 
seemed  to  hear  the  clash  of  arms,  the  roll  of 
artillery,  the  shrieks  of  slaughtered  children, 
the  hiss  of  the  hot  blood  pouring  out  as  the 
cold  steel  plunged  in  through  flesh  and  sinew  ; 
strife,  combat,  violence,  fierce  courage, 
ghastly  death,  all  seemed  familiar  to  her,  and 
she  sang  of  them  as  Tasso  sang  of  strife 
before  Jerusalem  that  never  his  eyes  looked 
on  in  life.  Higher  and  higher,  stronger  and 
stronger,  her  voice  would  rise  as  the  rhyme 
rushed  from  her  lips,  and  the  lute  under  her 
fingers  would  scream  and  sob  like  a  suffering 
thing,  and  a  i?reat  fear  would  come  over  all 
her  hsteners;  and  when,  all  suddenly,  she 
stopped,  pale,  breathless,  with  dilated  eyes — 


IX  MARMMMA.  150 


the  eyes  of  those  Avho  see  what  is  not  upon 
the  eartli — tlie  neighbours  wouki  steal  away 
alarmed  and  yet  entranced,  and  Joconda 
Avould  cross  herself  and  think  :  'All  the  dead 
that  her  father  slew  seem  to  cry  out  to  her.' 

It  was  not  ver}^  often  tliat  she  could  be 
induced  to  take  up  the  mandoline,  or  show 
this  power  to  others  ;  but  song  and  narrative 
flavour  l\\Q  daily  bread  of  all  households  of 
the  south,  like  the  onion,  or  the  melon  ;  and 
even  in  these  languid,  naked,  fever-haunted 
shores  there  was  always  some  knot  of  tired 
seamen,  of  weary  women,  to  gatlier  in  the 
shade  of  a  wall,  or  under  tlie  ludk  of  a 
stranded  boat,  and  beguile  the  time  with 
rispetti  and  recitative. 

Such  as  these  would  coax  lier,  or  bribe 
her  with  some  carnation  flower,  or  some 
nautilus  shell,  to  come  amongst  them,  and 
conjure  up,  to  thrill  their  sluggish  veins, 
some  traged}^  of  sea  or  land,  some  vision  of 
love  or  death.  So  she  sani?  of  thin<]js  she 
knew  not,  and  in  the  sultry  evenings,  when 
the  skies  were  livid  and  seemed  hard  as 
metal,  and  the  sea  swayed  heavily  under  the 
heat  like  a  flood  of  molten  lead,  the  drought 
and  the  drouth  and  the  shiverinir  sickness 
and  the  })arched   poisonous  land    were  all 


160  IN  MAREMMA. 


forgotten  as  they  hearkened  to  that  voice  of 
hers  which  seemed,  even  as  the  nightingales' 
voices  do  when  many  of  them  sing  together, 
to  be  like  the  sound  of  silver  cymbals  smiting 
one  another. 

Joconda  discouraged  and  disliked  this 
power  of  improvisation,  this  inborn  melody. 

'  Who  knows  where  it  may  lead  her  one 
day,'  she  thought ;  '  and  if  she  bcGame  one 
of  those  singing- w^omen  Avho  give  their  throats 
for  gold,  and  show  themselves  half  stripped 
upon  the  stage  of  the  world,  then  had  I 
better  have  left  her  to  be  eaten  by  the  rats 
under  the  pine-trees  of  her  father's  lair.' 

For  Joconda  was  a  Puritan  at  heart, 
having  in  her  by  her  mother  the  Waldensian 
blood ;  and  she  did  her  best  to  discourao-e 
the  gifts  of  voice  in  Saturnino's  child.  But 
nature  is  stronger  than  counsel,  and  Musa 
rhymed  and  sang.  Knowing  nothing  of  the 
metrical  laws  that  govern  the  s  jnnet,  she  yet 
imitated  these  so  well  that  she  strung  many 
a  sonnet  like  a  row  of  pearls ;  only  never 
hardly  could  she  keep  the  text  unchanged, 
her  fancy  varied,  and  her  spoken  poems 
varied  also  as  the  quail's  call  varies,  when 
he  cries  across  the  waving  grass  to  his  mate. 

'  Sing  the  same  as  yesterday,'  her  neigh- 


IN  MAREMMA.  161 


bours  sometimes  would  say  to  her  ;  and  she 
would  answer :  '  Can  you  call  yesterday's 
wind  back,  or  the  clouds  of  last  night, 
can  you  gather  them  together  this  morning  ? 
I  can  only  sing  what  comes  to  me.' 

Under  other  influences  it  would  have 
become  genius,  this  facile  power  of  stirring 
the  brains  and  hearts  of  others  with  sound ; 
but  here  it  remained  only  a  gift  of  verse 
as  many  had,  though  fresher  and  more 
eloquent  than  most.  There  was  no  food 
for  it,  except  a  strophe  of  the  '  Gerusa- 
lemme  Liberata,'  a  story  from  the  *  Furioso,' 
or  the  'Morgante  Maggiore,'  passed  from 
mouth  to  mouth  of  the  people. 

Once  she  found  in  a  drawer  a  torn  and 
yellow  transcript  of  the  sonnets  of  Petrarca, 
copied  in  a  crabbed  hand  by  some  poor 
scholar  of  the  past  century ;  it  was  the 
dearest  treasure  that  she  had ;  it  was  her 
only  book.  She  read  with  trouble  and  slowly 
at  the  best  of  times ;  but  by  degrees  she 
learned  these  sonnets  all  by  heart  tlirough 
dint  of  going  over  them  so  often,  and  the 
stained  rough  yellow  leaves  were  sacred  to 
her  as  the  Holy  Grail  to  a  knight.  She  knew 
nothing  as  to  who  Petrarca  had  been,  notliing 
of  Vaucluse,  or  of  the  entry  into  Pome ;  but 

VOL.   I.  M 


162  IN  MAREMMA, 

slie  loved  those  '  liquid  numbers '  with  all 
her  soul,  and  in  her  thoughts  he  was  vaguely- 
blended  with  the  dead  hero  of  the  tomb. 

So  she  dreamed  the  hours  away,  whilst 
her  bodily  strength  laboured  at  the  crank  of 
the  waterwheel,  at  the  mounds  of  seaweed, 
at  the  sickle,  with  which  she  cut  the  wild 
oats  for  the  mule,  at  the  heavy  sails  which 
she  dra^cred  over  the  sands  for  Joconda  to 
mend.  So  she  never  saw  the  lads  who  came 
with  the  coasters,  and  who  would  fain  have 
had  play  or  flattery  with  her  in  the  evening- 
time,  when  the  tarred  ropes  lay  idle  over  the 
sea-wall,  and  their  tartanas  anchored  in  the 
weed-choked,  sand-lilled  bay ;  and  they 
grew  angry,  and  hooted  after  her,  '  Muson- 
cella  ! '  and  turned  their  thoughts  to  Marian- 
nina,  the  pilot  Giano's  daughter,  who  had 
yellow  hair,  and  red-brown  eyes,  and  was 
esteemed  a  beauty,  and  kept  her  pink  and 
white  skin  safe  by  going  up  out  of  the  heat 
every  summer  to  the  house  of  an  aunt  wdio 
lived  high  on  the  Volterrian  hills,  although 
Giano's  daughter  at  her  best  was,  beside  the 
lustrous  colour  of  Musa's  beauty,  as  a  pale 
aster  in  September's  sun  is  beside  the  glow 
of  the  autumnal  rose. 

But  Giano's  daughter,  Mariannina,  smiled 


IX  MAREMMA.  1G3 

and  listened  and  flirted,  and  had  a  merry 
word  and  a  bashful  blush  for  each  of  them  ; 
and  in  Musa  they  found  a  restive,  silent, 
scornfid  creature  ;  for  wliat  do  young  sailors, 
or  landsmen  either,  want  with  a  girl  who  only 
sees  Laura's  dead  lover,  and  has  no  ej^es  at 
all  for  them  and  th^irfesta  bravery  ? 

Throughout  Maremma,  wdiere  love  plays 
fast  and  loose,  and  the  sower  of  the  corn 
is  seldom  the  reaper  of  it,  and  the  hunter  of 
one  autumn  is  rarely  the  same  as  another 
— in  Maremma,  where  the  passions  are  lava 
and*the  faith  is  thistle-down, — the  boldest 
and  the  liglitest  Avould  never  have  dared  an 
amorous  word  to  the  Musoncella. 

There  was  a  straiglit,  far-away  look  in  her 
great  blue-black  eyes,  and  a  curve  on  lier 
red  hps  that  would  have  scared  them,  even 
had  any  of  those  passers-by  had  time  to  tarry 
and  see  what  a  rare  and  strange  flower  was 
growing  up  in  the  stonj'',  reedy  sands  of  the 
dreary  world-forgotten  place.  And  besides, 
there  was  Joconda,  who  always  banged  the 
door  with  scant  ceremony,  or  grumbled  a 
morose  good-morrow,  if  she  saw  any  human 
beinc^  lookinc^  twice  at  the  child  whom  she 
had  called  after  Mary  tlie  Penitent  Joconda 
was  always  afraid  for  the  future. 

31  -1 


164  IN  MARE  MM  A. 


There  was  the  gallcy-shive  on  Gorgona, 
and  there  was  the  wild  blood  m  the  storm- 
bu'd.  The  only  good,  she  thought,  she  could 
wish  for  the  daughter  of  Saturnino  Avas  to  live 
without  sin  in  this  desolate  spot,  unseen,  un- 
known, with  httle  more  soul  in  her  than 
there  was  in  the  stout  shore  thistle,  that 
neither  sands  nor  sea  could  swamp. 

'  So,  the  saints  will  pluck  her  to  them- 
selves at  last,'  thought  Joconda ;  and  the 
dreariness,  the  lovelessness,  the  hopelessness  of 
such  an  existence  did  not  occur  to  her,  be- 
cause age,  which  has  learned  the  solace  and 
sweetness  of  peace,  never  remembers  that  to 
youth  peace  seems  only  stagnation,  inanition, 
death. 

The  exhausted  swimmer,  reaching  the 
land,  falls  prone  on  it,  and  blesses  it ;  but  the 
out-going  swimmer,  full  of  strength,  spurns 
the  land,  and  only  loves  the  high- crested 
wave,  the  abyss  of  the  deep  sea. 

There  were  seventy-one  years  between 
the  souls  of  Joconda  and  the  child  who  slept 
in  her  bed,  sat  at  her  board,  and  knelt 
before  her  cross.  They  were  too  many  for 
sympathy  to  bridge  them,  and  though  she 
loved  the  child,  behind  the  love  was  always 
fear  ;  the  human  fear  of  the  tiger's  cub. 


IN  MAREMMA.  166 


Meanwhile  Andreino,  who  was  a  shrewd 
and  sagacious  person,  liad  other  schemes 
for  her  future ;  he  hked  tlie  child,  and  he 
liked  still  better  the  thought  of  the  good  store 
of  gold  and  silver  pieces  that  rumour  assigned 
to  the  woman  of  Savoy.  He  had  a  ricketty, 
ague-shaking  little  great-grandson  of  eigh- 
teen, with  a  pretty,  sickly  face,  who  lived 
witli  his  father  at  a  wineshop  in  a  little  sea- 
town  in  Apulia.  '  Why  not  get  the  girl  for 
the  lad,'  he  thought. 

'  And  they  could  live  with  me,'  mused 
this  disinterested  old  man ;  '  and  she  is 
stronger  than  many  a  boy,  and  loves  steer- 
ing and  rowing,  and  would  go  out  to  the 
night-fishing  like  any  man  among  them. 
It  would  be  but  kind  to  speak  of  it  to 
Joconda.' 

So  he  went  and  spoke  of  it  with  his 
pipe  in  his  mouth  one  day  that  Joconda 
was  sitting  in  the  shade  of  her  house  w^all 
mending  a  sail,  for  she  was  never  idle. 
Joconda  gave  him  few  words  in  answer. 

'  One  does  not  mate  a  trailing  weed  with 
a  young  oak,'  she  said  with  calm  contempt, 
having  well  in  her  mind's  eye  Andreino's 
sickly  and  shaking  descendant ;  and  though 
he  talked  his  best  for  the  chief  part  of  two 


166  IN  MAREMMA, 


hours,  he  did  not  come  any  nearer  towards 
chancrino;  her  convictions. 

'  She  is  a  crafty,  crabbed  soul,'  thought 
her  neighbour.  '  Maybe  she  has  some  one 
in  Savoy ' 

At  that  moment  Musa  came  in  sight. 

'  We  were  talking  of  marriage  for  you,' 
said  Andreino  with  a  grim  smile,  as  she 
drew  near  them. 

Musa  looked  at  him  a  little  perplexedly 
under  her  straight  brows,  then  her  grave 
face  lauoiied. 

'  Marriage  !  I  know  what  that  is  :  it  is 
for  the  woman  to  stay  at  home  and  spin 
while  the  man  is  at  sea,  and  to  go  out  and 
rake  wood  and  salt  while  he  is  drinking  at 
the  wine  shop.  That  is  what  it  is  ;  it  is  not 
for  me.' 

The  old  fisherman  laughed. 

'  It  is  not  only  that.     There  are ' 

'  Hold  your  tongue,  Andreino,'  said 
Joconda.  '  It  is  oftenest  only  that  or  worse. 
The  child  need  not  think  of  it  for  many  a 
day.' 

'  Men  will  think  of  it,'  said  the  old  sailor, 
*  and  you  have  a  pretty  penny,  and  it  would 
be  well  to  find  a  decent  lad.' 

'  When  I  show  the  penny  the  lads  will 


IN  MAREMMA,  1G7 


come  like  flies  to  wine,  never  fear,'  said 
Joconda  grimly.  '  The  child  has  no  such 
thoughts.     Let  lier  be.' 

Andreino  went  aAvay  grumbling.  He 
liked  to  act  the  part  of  the  padrone  d'  amove, 
though  the  sickly  and  scant  population  of  the 
coast  gave  him  little  scope  for  the  taste,  and 
he  had  thought  to  taunt  and  tease  the  woman 
of  Savoy  into  proving  to  him  how  many  of 
those  pretty  amorini,  good  solid  coins,  were 
in  the  pitcher  under  the  heartli,  or  the 
bucket  sunk  at  the  bottom  of  the  well,  or  the 
hole  in  the  brick  behind  the  mule's  manner, 
or  wherever  it  might  be  that  the  savings  of 
her  long  life  were  kept. 

Joconda,  left  alone  with  the  girl,  looked 
at  lier  a  little  wistfidly. 

'  Child,  you  are  handsome,'  she  said  at 
last.  '  Tliat  old  cracked  chatterer  said  true. 
Some  one  may  want  to  marry  you.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Musa,  indifferently. 

'  Though  there  is  not  a  soul  here,  still 
sometimes  they  come — Lucchese,  Pistoiese, 
Avhat  not — they  come  as  they  go  ;  they  are 
a  faithless  lot ;  they  love  all  winter,  and 
while  the  corn  is  in  the  ear  it  goes  well,  but 
after  harvest — phew ! — they  put  their  gains  in 
their  pockets  and  they  are  off  and  aw^ay  back 


168  IN  MAREMMA, 

to  their  mountains.  There  are  broken  hearts 
in  Maremma  when  the  threshing  is  done.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Musa  again. 

It  was  nothing  to  her,  and  she  heeded 
but  little. 

'  Yes,  because  men  speak  too  lightly  and 
women  hearken  too  quickly ;  that  is  how 
the  mischief  is  born.  With  the  autumn 
the  mountaineers  come.  They  are  strong 
and  bold  ;  they  are  ruddy  and  brown ;  they 
work  all  day,  but  in  the  long  nights  they 
dance  and  they  sing ;  then  the  girl  listens. 
She  thinks  it  is  all  true,  though  it  has  all 
been  said  before  in  his  own  hills  to  other 
ears.  The  winter  nights  are  long,  and 
the  devil  is  always  near  ;  when  the  corn 
goes  down  and  the  heat  is  come  there  is 
another  sad  soul  the  more,  another  burden 
to  carry,  and  he — he  goes  back  to  the  moun- 
tains. What  does  he  care  ?  Only  when  he 
comes  down  into  the  plains  again  he  goes  to 
another  place  to  work,  because  men  do  not 
love  women's  tears.  That  is  how  it  goes  in 
Maremma.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Musa  for  a  third  time. 

'  Child,  do  not  let  a  man  touch  you  till 
you  have  had  the  blessing  of  Church  upon 
you.     Eemember  that,     Whilst  I  am  here, 


IN  MAREMMA.  1G9 


if  a  man  come,  it  will  be  the  worse  for  him 
if  he  come  not  honestly.  I  am  tough  still. 
But  when  I  am  i?one  there  will  be  no  one,  for 
Andreino  is  but  a  gawky  gossip  full  of  talcs. 
Promise  me  that ;  let  no  man  touch  you 
till  the  Church  has  blessed  you.  Promise 
that.' 

Musa  at  last  was  astonished  and  startled. 
A  warmth  of  blood  came  over  the  delicate 
brown  of  her  face  and  throat. 

'  I  promise,'  she  said  quickly.  '  But  I 
do  not  see  any  men  ;  I  do  not  want  them.' 

'  Some  one  will  come,'  muttered  Jo- 
conda.  '  Some  one  always  comes.  Swear 
me  that  by  the  image  you  wear.' 

The  child  kissed  the  gold  Madonnina 
that  hung  about  her  throat,  and  said,  '  I 
swear  it — but  a  promise  is  the  same.' 

'  With  you  I  think  it  is,'  said  Joconda. 
'  But,  Lord,  what  are  you  yet  ?  A  bird  not 
out  of  nest — a  bud  all  folded  up.  You  do 
not  know  what  you  will  be  in  a  year  or  two. 
And  now  that  you  have  sworn  you  will 
remember.' 

'  I  will  remember,'  said  Musa. 

Joconda  was  silent,  recollecting,  as  she 
twirled  her  flax,  on  what  the  Marcmma  had 
always  said  of  Saturnino — that  he  was  true 


170  IN  MAREMMA. 


to  a  plighted  word  through  good  and  ill, 
and  when  he  swore  on  his  Madonnina  abode 
by  his  oath,  whether  it  were  for  blood- 
guiltiness  or  for  the  sparing  of  blood. 

'  She  is  Saturnino's  own  child,'  thought 
Joccnda.  She  was  his  child.  To  the  mind 
of  Joconda  that  one  fact  made  this  calm 
young  life  seem  like  a  fair  garden  outspread 
on  a  volcano's  side.  There  were  the  bud- 
ding lilies  indeed,  and  the  half-shut  roses, 
but  there  was  the  lava  stream  beneath  them 
that  any  day  might  rise  in  fire. 

'  If  only  I  could  be  always  here,'  she 
thought,  poor  soul,  fancying  that  she  w^ould 
find  some  force  to  staj^  the  lava  with  the 
uplifted  crucifix.  But  she  knew  she  could 
not  be  always  here  ;  she  was  eighty- six  years 
old  this  brilliant  day  of  San  Zenone,  when 
the  light  and  the  fragrance  of  spring  were 
eautiful,  even  in  cursed  Maremma. 

When  Musa  was  asleep  that  night  and 
all  the  little  place  was  still,  Joconda,  behind 
her  barred  shutters  and  bolted  doors,  by  the 
light  of  her  lantern  looked  at  her  little 
hoard,  which  was  kept  under  a  stone  in  the 
paved  floor  of  her  kitchen. 

She  counted  it.  It  was  but  little,  though 
the  fancy  of  Santa  Tarsilla  made  it  much. 


IX  MARE  MM  A.  171 

Fortunes  are  not  made  by  weaving  liemp 
and  mending  sails. 

There  were  some  score  of  gold  Grand 
Ducal  coins,  and  some  handfuls  of  Papal 
silver  ones  ;  that  was  all.  Before  the  child 
had  come  to  her  she  had  thought  the  money 
would  do  to  bury  her,  and  buy  some  masses 
for  her  soul.  Now  the  child  was  there  she 
said  to  herself,  '  my  soul  can  do  well  enough 
without  masses  ;  she  must  have  it  all;'  and 
caused  to  be  scrawled  in  Grosseto,  by  a  friend, 
on  a  scrap  of  stamped  paper  to  make  it  good, 
these  words  of  formal  bequest : — 

'  All  this  is  for  the  child  Maria  Penitente, 
whom  they  call  Musa  or  the  Musoncella, 
and  the  parish  may  bury  my  body,  and  my 
soul  will  be  with  God,  who  will  do  what 
lie  likes  v/itli  it.     Deus  exaudit  nosJ 

This,  which  had  been  written  at  her  own 
dictation,  she  wrapped  carefully  round  the 
money,  and  with  a  sigh  replaced  it  in  tlie 
hole,  and  set  the  stone  down  over  it.  It 
was  but  little  to  be  the  only  plank  between  a 
girl,  and  hunger,  and  thirst,  and  homeless- 
ness,  and  shame. 

Yet  over  the  face  of  Joconda  a  ^rim 
smile  fluttered  as  she  put  out  her  lantern. 
'  Andreino  thinks  I  have  a  pretty  penny,' 


172  IN  MAREMMA. 


she  thought ;  '  and  he  would  hke  to  sell  me 
his  ricketty  great-grandson  that  shakes  with 
ague  like  a  jelly-fish  in  a  lobster-pot ! ' 

The  smile  faded  as  she  laid  herself 
down  to  sleep ;  she  knew  all  the  niggardly 
self-seeking  ways  of  the  people,  and  had 
diverted  herself  with  them  through  all  the 
silent  years  of  her  life  on  these  shores ;  but 
they  were  sorry  neighbours  to  whom  to  leave 
a  soHtary  child  for  care  and  for  mercy. 

'  Well,  the  good  God  will  be  with  her,' 
sighed  Joconda  in  the  formula  of  her  faith. 
But  she  was  a  woman  whom  a  formula 
could- but  half  console. 

Deity  at  his  best  was  very  far  away,  and 
always  silent. 

She  would  gladly  have  had  those  pieces 
mider  the  pavement  more  by  a  hundredfold. 

She  glanced  wistfully  at  the  figure  of 
the  girl  ere  she  ])ut  out  her  light,  as  Musa  lay 
on  the  rough  bed  scarcely  covered,  with 
her  slender  straiglit  round  limbs  glistening 
like  some  golden-hued  marble,  and  her  head 
hung  downward  in  deep  rest,  as  a  flower 
hangs  when  full  of  dew. 

She  thought  once  of  her  own  people,  but 
she  knew  nothing  about  them.  More  than 
sixty  years  had  gone  by  since  she  had  come 


IN  MAREMMA.  17;] 


down  the  mountain  paths  out  of  the  mist, 
and  said  farewell  to  the  great  snow-peaks, 
the  forests  of  pine,  the  green  glacier  waters 
tumbling  through  the  ravine.  She  liad 
never  seen  them  since,  nor  any  of  her  kin- 
dred. Letters  had  come  once,  now  and  then, 
in  two  or  three  years'  time,  but  that  Avas 
long  ago,  long  ago ;  i^he  had  had  but  two 
brothers,  and  they  had  forgotten  her,  when 
once  she  was  married,  and  far  away  over  tlie 
southern  sea. 

It  w^as  of  no  use  to  think  of  them. 

'  Never  hearken  to  tlie  voice  of  a  man 
that  bears  you  away,'  she  would  say  to  the 
unconscious  child,  as  her  memoiies  drifted 
to  that  time,  so  long  ago,  when  she  had  left 
her  Alps  for  her  lover's  shores.  He  had 
been  a  true  lover,  indeed,  that  dark- eyed 
Marennnano,  but  he  had  perished  before  her 
eves,  and  his  bont  had  come  in  on  the  surf 
keel  upward,  and  all  the  widow's  jointure 
he  had  left  her  had  been  sorrow  and  disease 
and  barren  years,  dry  from  grief  as  the 
shores  were  dry  with  the  sand-bearing 
scirocco.  If  she  had  never  known  him,  she 
would  no  doubt  have  lived  and  died  amidst 
the  peace  and  plenty  of  those  Alpine  farms. 

'Love  is    a  cruel  thing,'    she    thought; 


174  IK  MAREMMA. 


and  the  next  day  she  brought  out  their  few 
scant  letters,  of  which  the  latest  was  thirty 
years  old,  and  bade  Musa  read  them  aloud 
to  her. 

The  child  read  them  with  some  diffi- 
culty ;  they  were  short  and  grave,  such 
letters  as  busy  farmers  w^ould  write  on  a 
winter's  night  when  the  chalet  was  blocked 
in  snow,  and  their  mountain  side  seemed 
severed  by  a  wall  of  ice  from  all  the  world. 
Joconda  listened,  and  said  never  a  word. 
Her  heart  was  fulL  Herself,  she  could  not 
read,  but  she  looked  at  the  signatures,  Anton 
Sanctis,  Joachim  Sanctis  ;  and  it  seemed  once 
more  as  though  she  were  fifteen  years  old, 
and  her  brothers  were  breastins^  the  face  of 
the  rocks  and  calling  to  her  where  she 
stood  above,  with  the  red  and  white  cow 
Dorothea.  She  had  never  spoken  of  her 
youth  to  the  child  before.  She  spoke  now, 
in  few  words,  but  tenderly. 

Musa,  with  the  old  faded  yellow  ill- 
writ  letters  lying  on  her  knee,  sat  in  the 
sultry  pestilential  mists  of  a  summer  day  in 
Maremma,  and  heard  of  that  land  of  cool- 
ness, of  rest,  of  forest  stillness,  of  glacier 
solitude.  It  seemed  strange  to  her,  and 
very  wonderful, 


7iV  MAREMMA,  175 

'  Are  they  all  dead,  do  you  think  ?  '  she 
said,  sharing  Joconda's  vague  anxiety. 

'Ay,  for  sure,  they  are  all  dead,'  said 
Joconda.  with  a  smothered  si^^h  ;  and  in  the 
dust,  in  the  glare,  in  the  furnace-blast  of 
the  scirocco  that  is  like  a  curse  from  the 
mouth  of  a  fever-stricken  man,  she  told  her 
beads  and  muttered  to  herself : 

'  Dear  heaven  !  for  the  feel  of  the  snow 
in  the  air,  for  the  smell  of  the  great  pine 
woods  in  the  wind — what  I  would  give, 
Avhat  I  would  give  !  But  I  have  nothing  to 
give ;  I  am  old  and  a  fool  ;  and  they  are 
dead,  my  brothers/ 

To  be  sure  they  were  dead  ;  dead  many 
a  year,  no  doubt,  with  the  cross  set  at  their 
headstones,  about  the  little  chapel  under  the 
crest  of  the  mountain ;  the  little  chapel 
that  she  remembered  so  well,  lying  so  high 
that  the  clouds  bathed  it,  and  the  snow 
scarce  melted  till  June.  And  she  would 
herself  lie  here  in  the  sand  and  the  sun. 

During  this  hot  summer  season  the 
thought  of  them,  her  two  only  brothers, 
grew  stronger  and  stronger  upon  her  ;  and 
as  she  drove  one  day  into  Grosseto,  the 
remembrance  grew  so  vivid  that  she  went 
to  a  scrivener  and  said  to  him — 


176  T^V  MAREMMA. 


'  Write  me  a  long  letter  and  a  good 
one,  and  word  for  word  as  I  tell  it  you  ; 
and  write  it  so  that  it  can  go  over  the  sea 
and  the  hills  without  harm  ;  and  when  it  is 
written  address  it  clearly  and  in  a  bold  hand 
to  Anton  and  Joachim  Sanctis,  above  the 
Yal  de  Cogne,  in  the  kingdom  of  Savoy.' 

As  she  dictated  so  the  scrivener  wrote, 
and  with  her  own  hand  Joconda  dropped 
the  letter  into  the  bag  of  the  post,  as  it 
went  out  of  Grosseto  that  evening  time  at 
sunset. 

Anton  and  Joachim,  if  alive,  would  be 
very  old  men,  for  they  had  been  older  than 
she  by  some  years,  but  that  scarcely  occurred 
to  her.  She  always  saw  them  as  she  had  seen 
them  last,  bold  mountaineers  and  farmers, 
stalwart  and  handsome,  angry  at  her  wed- 
ding Avith  the  Italian  from  over  tlie  seas, 
and  bidding  her  and  him  a  reluctant  and 
sullen  God-speed"  as  the  mules  jolted  down 
the  steep  ways  into  the  valley,  and  tlie 
glaciers  of  Grandcou  and  Monei  and  the 
peak  of  the  beautifid  Grivola  were  lost  for 
ever  to  her  sight. 

••  Ay,  I  had  better  have  stayed  there,' 
she  thought,  with  a  wistful  sigh,  as  she 
dropped  her  letter  in  the   post   and  made 


IN  MAREMMA.  177 


her  way  through  the  pale  dusty  haze  of  a 
summer  twihght  in  sickly  Grosseto. 

The  memories  of  the  mountain  winds,  the 
deep  still  Avoods,  the  ciystal  clearness  of  the 
cold  bright  air,  the  forest  silence  on  those 
heiofhts  where  the  sole  visitants  were  the  cackle 
and  the  vulture,  came  back  upon  her  mind 
amidst  the  heat,  the  dust,  the  heaviness,  the 
nauseousness  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  sea- 
shore in  Maremma. 

'  Surel}^  I  am  near  my  end,'  she  thought, 
knowing  that  when  the  thoughts  of  youth 
return  fresh  as  the  scent  of  new-gathered 
blossoms  to  the  tired  old  age  which  has  so 
long  forgot  them,  the  coming  of  Death  is 
seldom  very  distant ;  and  she  jolted  home 
behind  the  mule,  falling  asleep  at  intervals 
while  the  beast  took  his  homeward  course 
unerringly,  and  when  she  awoke  with  a 
start  and  saw  the  level  and  mournful  plains 
around  her,  she  did  not  for  the  moment 
understand,  and  began  to  call  Eosa,  and 
Nix,  and  Dorothea,  the  cows  that  she  had 
had  at  pasture  on  the  Alps  when  she  had 
been  some  fifteen  summers  old  ! 

'  Lord,  their  bones  lie  bleaching  fifty 
years ! '  she  said  to  lierself,  knowing  her 
own  folly ;  yet  she  could  see  them  all ;  the 

VOL.  I.  N 


178  IN  MAREMMA. 


dun,  the  black,  the  pretty  red  and  white, 
thrusting  their  noses  through  the  hish  Alpine 
grass,  and  lowing  their  welcome  to  her 
through  the  Alpine  mists  of  morning. 
'  When  one  leaves  one's  cradle-land  one  does 
ill,'  she  thought  wearily,  as  the  sea  gleamed 
in  her  sight,  pale,  smooth,  ghastly,  in  the 
light  of  the  moon ;  the  bottomless  grave 
that  held  her  dead. 

Each  day  after  that  slie  began  wistfully 
to  hope  that  she  might  hear  something  from 
Savoy.  The  postman  came  over  the  plains 
and  along  the  shores  very  irregularly  to 
Santa  Tarsilla.  If  it  were  not  the  soldiers 
or  the  priest  who  had  a  letter,  no  one  else 
ever  saw  such  a  thing  save  once,  when 
Andreino  had  been  known  to  have  one  an- 
nouncing the  death  of  a  son  of  his,  who 
kept  a  wine-shop  far  up  the  Eiviera,  where 
the  orange,  and  the  lemon,  and  the  fragrant 
olive  grow  togetlier  by  the  edge  of  the  sea. 
Joconda  began  to  look  wistfully  for  the 
dusty  jaded  figure  of  the  tired  j906'^i?zo 
coming  across  the  sand,  but  she  looked  in 
vain. 

The  weeks  came  and  went ;  the  drought 
became  greater ;  the  plain  grew  yellower 
and  the  sky   greyer ;    the   air   was  hke   a 


IX  MAREMMA. 


179 


furnace,  and  over  the  water  there  hunor 
always  a  livid  fog  of  heat.  But  she  got  no 
answer. 

'  No  doubt  they  are  dead,'  she  thought, 
and  felt  the  sadder  and  the  loneUer  fox  the 
thought. 


N  2 


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CHAPTEE  VIII. 


*EANWHILE,  for  sympathy  Miisa 
went  elsewhere.  She  turned  to 
those  who  had  been  dead  three 
thousand  years  if  one. 
She  had  never  spoken  of  her  discovery  ; 
the  secret  was  sacred  to  her  and  SAveet ;  she 
loved  the  moors  and  the  city  of  the  dead 
that  was  beneath  them.  All  the  leisure  that 
she  had  she  spent  there.  With  the  help  of 
Andreino  she  had  made,  at  last,  for  herself 
a  rough  little  boat  out  of  drift-timbers  lying 
about,  and  she  rowed  herself  hither  and 
thither  in  it :  it  was  not  very  seaworthy, 
but  that  had  no  terrors  for  her ;  she  could 
swim  like  a  fish.  She  visited  her  Etruscan 
burial-place  with  each  fast-day  that  came 
round,  when  the  crisp  snow  of  December 
made  the  marsh  ice  and  the  world  white. 


IN  MAREMMA.  181 


as  when  the  suns  of  August  sucked  up  the 
venom  from  the  emerald  soaking  swamp. 

She  found  the  other  spacious  chambers 
connected  with  the  first  grave ;  tombs  Avitli 
stone  biers  around  the  walls,  and  the  same 
strange  fantastic  paintings  on  the  w^all,  and' 
many  eartlienware  cups  and  trays,  and  some 
lamps  and  goblets  of  gold.  These  last  had 
not  been  oxydised  as  the  first  that  she  had 
seen,  and  therefore  did  not  vanish  at  her 
touch  ;  no  doubt  because,  though  she  could 
see  no  ray  of  light  into  these  inner  chambers, 
some  air  had  always  come,  for  the  dead  were 
not  there,  not  even  their  bones  and  ashes  ; 
these  had  long  ago  gone  forth  on  the 
breath  of  the  wind,  as  her  warrior  kins  had 
done. 

To  any  scholar,  or  even  to  a  traveller 
imscholarly,  these  tombs  would  have  seemed 
capable  enough  of  simple  explanation  ;  but 
to  her  they  were  as  an  enchanted  city,  as 
a  world  apart,  as  a  thing  given  to  herself 
from  some  unseen  power  that  set  the  planets 
rolling,  and  made  the  storm  arise  and  sweep 
bare  the  sea. 

When  the  bare  cold  rocks  blocked  her 
passage,  she  felt  very  sure  that  beyond  it, 
though  she  might  not  behold  further,  were 


182  IN  MAREMMA. 


all  the  oilier  kingdoms  of  the  dead,  all  the 
hosts  over  whom  the  khig,  who  had  vanished 
in  the  light  of  the  stars,  once  had  reigned. 

The  upper  world,  that  bore  the  oaks  and 
the  grain,  the  honeysuckle  and  the  holy- 
thorn,  became  almost  nothing  to  her  ;  it  was 
but  as  a  mere  crust  above  the  true  world,  the 
world  v/here  the  dead  in  their  millions  slept 

and  awaited— what? she  did  not  know, 

but  she  felt  she  would  .wish  to  wait  with 
them  for  ever,  rather  than  be  one  in  that 
sordid,  sickly,  little  living  world  she  knew, 
with  its  greed  over  a  haul  of  fish,  its  savage 
quarrels  over  a  copper-piece,  its  worry,  its 
weariness,  its  waihng,  its  beds  of  sickness, 
and  its  hearts  of  stone. 

To  whosoever  dwells  in  an  ideal  world  the 
world  of  men  and  women  seems  but  a  poor 
thing;  and  Musa  began  to  dwell  in  one — 
she,  whose  father  had  seen  no  beauty  save 
in  a  scarlet  lip,  a  narrow  poignard,  a  sack 
of  gold,  a  pool  of  blood. 

The  little  that  Joconda  had  said  of  the 
nation  of  dead,  instead  of  allaying  the  fever 
of  her  fiincy,  inflamed  it. 

'Do  they  tell  of  these  dead  people  in 
books?'  she  asked  Joconda  once,  who 
answered : 


IN  MAREMMA,  183 


'  Aye ;  all  lies  come  out  of  books,  I 
believe,  and  some  truth  too,  they  say.  For 
my  part,  a  book  was  always  a  thing  I 
thought  best  put  in  the  priest's  hands,  and 
left  there.' 

Musa  grew  diligent  in  her  endeavours  to 
read  well  and  rapidly.  But  nothing  did  she 
find  of  the  dead  people.  All  that  she  had 
to  read  in  were  stories  of  the  saints,  and  the 
proclamations  about  taxes  and  other  annoy- 
ances that  were  posted  up  on  the  piers  of 
Santa  Tarsilla. 

'  Who  has  got  books  ?  '  she  wondered. 

Xo  one  at  all  in  her  world. 

She  went  back  to  the  world  of  the  dead, 
and  imagined  all  that  she  would  have  liked 
to  find  in  the  books.  Imacjination  without 
culture  is  crippled  and  moves  slowly ;  but 
it  can  be  pure  imagination,  and  rich  also,  as 
folk-lore  will  tell  the  vainest. 

There  was  that  in  the  silence,  the  solitude, 
and  the  sense  of  ownership  which  made  the 
subterranean  sepulchres  beautiful  and  beloved 
to  the  child ;  if  any  other  had  broken  in  on 
them,  their  spell  would  have  been  weakened  ; 
she  grew  familiar  with  the  strange  dancers 
on  the  walls,  the  strange  creatures,  and 
flowers,  and  symbols ;  she  found  ornaments 


184  IN  MAREMMA. 


on  the  floors  and  on  the  stone  biers,  but  she 
only  looked  at  them  reverently ;  everything 
was  only  waiting  :  the  dead  people  would 
come  back. 

The  grey  shadows  of  these  chambers 
grew  dearer  to  her  than  the  light  of  spring 
or  summer  in  the  thickets  or  on  the  sea. 
Their  intense  stillness  seemed  sweeter  than 
even  the  sound  of  the  waves  she  had  so 
well  loved.  She  returned  to  her  home 
with  sorrow  ;  there  were  the  jar  of  shrill 
voices,  the  hissing  of  oil  in  frying-pans,  the 
cry  of  hurt  animals,  the  rattle  of  copper 
vessels,  the  babble  of  sickly  women. 

An  Italian  village  is  never  lovely. 

There  is  always  so  much  dust,  so  much 
dirt ;  there  is  so  much  stink  of  oil  and 
sickly  smell  of  silkworms ;  the  dogs  and 
cats  and  the  fowls  and  mules  look  hungry 
and  scared.  The  children  play  in  mud  or 
sand  with  some  live  thing  they  torture  ;  even 
amidst  the  hills  or  beside  the  pastures  they 
are  always  marring  the  beauty  of  the 
country  thus.  By  the  palsied  shores  of  the 
Maremma  this  squalor,  this  cruelty,  this  un- 
loveliness,  were  a  thousandfold  more  painful. 

When  she  went  back  to  them  from  the 
silence  and  solemnity  of  the  Etruscan  moor- 


IN  MAREMMA.  385 

lands  tliey  hurt  her  with  a  sudden  sense  of 
their  unfitness  and  their  hatefuhiess. 

'  It  is  better  with  the  dead,'  she  thought, 
wlien  she  went  rehictantly  home  to  the  low- 
lying  shore  when  the  flat  roofs  of  Santa 
Tarsilla  were  white  and  blac;k  under  the 
moon. 

When  a  certain  Etruscan  tomb  was 
broken  open  in  Italy,  and  one  of  those  neck- 
laces of  fine  gold  that  no  known  work  can 
surpass  for  skill  was  found  in  the  grave, 
a  duchess,  still  living,  put  the  dead  woman's 
ornament  on  her  own  throat,  and  danced  in 
it  on  that  night. 

Musa  never  so  offended  the  dust.  She 
would  as  soon  have  rifled  the  Madonna's 
altar  as  have  touched  their  jewels. 

She  let  all  the  gold  and  the  earthenware 
lie  or  stand  where  she  had  found  it,  where 
the  mourners  had  placed  it  when  the  bones 
had  been  laid  there ;  and  although  in  one  of 
the  empty  biers  there  were  golden  chains  and 
golden  grasshoppers,  and  a  girdle  of  gold  sucli 
as  might  well  tempt  a  girl  to  put  them  above 
her  linen  boddice  and  about  her  woollen 
kirtle,  she  let  them  lie — she  whose  father  had 
snatched  gold  wherever  he  saw  it. 

She  spent  many  an  hour   in  loneliness, 


186  IN  MAREMMA, 


sitting  in  the  twilight  of  the  tombs,  studying 
the  figures  on  the  walls  till  they  seemed 
alive  to  her,  and  thinking,  not  clearly,  but 
dreamily  ;  as  the  ox  thinks  in  the  meadow- 
heats  of  noon,  as  the  deer  thinks,  and  the 
dog,  and  the  great  eagle,  when  he  sways  on 
an  oak-bough,  and  looks  down  through  ten 
fathom  deep  of  azure  air  and  mist  of  sun- 
beam in  the  gor^^^e  below. 

The  summer  was  very  hot  and  full  of 
mist  and  of  disease  as  summer  on  those 
shores  is  always ;  the  moorland  grew  full 
of  dangerous  gases,  the  broad  oak  foliage 
sicklied  and  looked  parched;  the  sea  was 
grey  and  hazy  with  the  horrible  haze  of 
heat;  pestilential  vapours  rose  in  steam  from 
the  marshes ;  clouds  hung  on  the  windless 
air  that  were  clouds,  not  of  rain,  but  of 
mosquitoes ;  all  animal  life  grew  feeble, 
languid  and  inert ;  the  time  was  come  for 
tlie  curse  of  Maremma,  the  midsummer 
that  elsewhere  is  the  year's  crown  of  re- 
joicing. 

In  this  oppressive  weather,  w^hen  the 
heavens  looked  a  vault  of  copper,  and  the 
sea  a  breathless  noxious  oily  plain,  and  all 
the  marshes  and  the  moors  were  as  though  a 
destroying  wind  of  fire  had  passed  over  and 


IN  MAREMMA.  187 


scorched  them  brown,  Miisa,  all  by  herself, 
still  sought  the  shadow  and  the  shelter  of  that 
tomb  whose  secret  was  only  known  to  her. 

She  was  never  afraid  ;  she  was  alwavs 
watching,  watching  for  the  dead  to  arise  or 
to  return.  The  intense  silence  did  not 
appal  her  ;  the  intense  solitude  there,  under- 
neath the  soil,  all  alone  in  tliat  vault  of 
sandstone,  with  the  bones  strewn  on  the 
beds  of  rock,  had  no  terrors  for  her.  These 
dead  were  like  her  people. 

She  was  afraid  lest  any  one  should  come 
to  share  their  secret  with  her. 

The  moor  was  very  lonely  ;  far  off,  now 
and  then,  the  figure  of  a  shepherd,  satyr-like 
and  clad  in  goatskin,  would  loom  black 
against  the  orange  of  the  sunset  sky ;  and 
she  would  watch  him  angrily  and  suspici- 
ously lest  he  should  bring  his  flocks  to  crop 
too  near  the  mouth  of  the  tombs,  and  learn 
their  existence  and  rob  her  of  their  solitude. 
But  no  one  disturbed  her.  The  herds  of  buf- 
faloes tramped  by,  snorting  and  bellowing  as 
the  gnats  stung  them,  and  the  flies  fastened 
in  their  flesh  ;  the  wild  boars  would  come 
too,  seeking  roots  in  the  cracked  dry  ground, 
and  thrustino:  their  snouts  amidst  the  saw- 
grass. 


188  IN  MAEEMMA. 

These  were  the  only  visitants  that  she 
had,  except  the  frogs  that  croaked  on  the 
stagnant  mud  of  the  steaming  pools,  and  all 
the  feathered  tribe  of  smiimer  singers,  that 
were  mute  under  the  burden  of  the  windless 
weather,  and  sat  dull  and  gasping  in  the 
caroba  boughs. 

One  day  at  early  morning,  going  there, 
she  saw  for  the  first  time  a  human  being 
amidst  the  maidenhair  and  the  vetches  about 
the  orifice  of  the  warrior's  tomb.  She  saw 
him  with  displeasure  and  fear.  Yet  he  was 
only  a  young  goatherd  about  ten  years  of 
age,  whose  goats  were  all  about  him,  crop- 
ping the  herbage ;  grey,  and  black,  and 
wlnte,  wise-looking,  bright-eyed,  creatures, 
half  beast,  half  fawn,  as  all  goats  are,  always 
looking  as  though  they  had  strayed  from 
Hymettus  or  from  Tempe. 

He  was  a  pretty  brown  boy,  a  moun- 
tain and  moorland  boy,  half-naked,  and 
playing  with  his  reed  pipe,  like  a  true  son 
of  Pan. 

'  Who  are  you  ?  '  she  said  angrily  ;  for 
she  felt  that  the  moor  was  her  own. 

He  laughed. 

'  I  am  Zefferino  ;  they  call  me  Zirlo.  I 
know   you.      You    are   the   girl   they   call 


IN  MAREMMA.  189 

Miisoncella  and  tlie  Yclia  down  in  Santa 
Tarsilla.' 

'  What  if  they  do?  Either  is  as  good  a 
name  as  Zirlo.    Why  do  they  call  you  Zirlo? ' 

'  Because  I  sing  ! '  ^ 

'  Who  does  not  sing  ?  That  is  nothing. 
Why  do  you  bring  your  goats  here  ?  ' 

'  Why  not  here  ?  The  moor  and  the 
marsh  are  free.  It  is  hot,  but  there  was  no 
grass  on  the  mountain  so  I  came  ;  I  Uve  in 
a  hut  on  this  moor  in  winter.  I  have  not 
been  dow^n  here  since  Pasqua.' 

Musa  was  silent.  She  knew  that  it  was 
true  ;  the  land  w^as  free. 

'Do  you  hve  far  off?  '  she  asked. 

'  Up  there,'  he  said  ;  and  pointed  vaguely 
across  the  ])lain. 

'  What  do  they  call  it,  where  you  live? ' 

'  San  Lionardo.     It  is  over  there.' 

He  pointed  again  across  to  where  the 
red  sullen  haze  of  the  heat  overhung  the 
inland  moors,  wdierc  they  swelled  upward 
and  met  the  first  spurs  of  the  mountains. 

Musa  stood  and  looked  ;  he  was  close 
by  the  aperture  of  tiie  tombs,  which  she  had 
carefully  covered  with  stones  and  dead 
branches ;  he  was  lying  on  his  back,  with 

*  Zirlo  means  the  whistling  of  the  thrush. 


190  IN  MAREMMA. 

liis  reed-pipe  in  his  half- open  hand  ;  he  had 
a  lovely,  dusky,  innocent  face. 

'  Why  do  you  mind  my  being  here  ? ' 
he  said,  good-humouredly.  '  It  is  all  so  dry  ; 
my  poor  goats  have  had  scarcely  a  mouth- 
ful all  the  week;  just  here  it  is  a  little 
better,  because  there  is  so  much  water. 
Why  do  you  mind  ?  ' 

'  I  hke  to  be  alone.' 

'  Ah,  yes,  you  are  the  Musoncella.  But 
it  is  not  good  to  be  alone.  I  never  am, 
because  I  have  the  goats.  I  have  heard  say 
you  are  wicked.     Are  you  wicked  ? ' 

'  I  do  not  know.' 

'  They  say  you  strike  people  .^  ' 

'  Sometimes.' 

Zirlo  raised  himself,  a  little  in  apprehen- 
sion. 

'  Why  do  you  strike  them  ?  ' 

'  Only  if  they  make  me  angry.' 

'  You  are  angry  now.  I  will  take  the 
goats  away.' 

Musa's  eyes  shone ;  then  she  relented. 
He  was  afraid  of  her,  so  he  disarmed  her. 

'  I  do  not  want  to  hurt  you.  Let  the 
goats  feed,'  she  said.  She  said  it  as  a 
princess  might  have  done,  giving  them  leave 
to  crop  the  roses  of  a  palace  garden. 


IN  MAREMMA,  191 


Though  she  was  Hke  a  young  dryad,  and 
he  hke  a  httle  fiiun,  they  were  but  chiklren 
after  alL  The  childhood  in  them  liad  its 
affinity  and  its  attraction. 

It  was  early  in  the  day ;  a  burning 
day  in  the  most  cruel  month  of  the 
southern  year,  when  even  the  red  of  the 
rosebud  seems  pale  with  heat,  and  even  the 
goU  of  the  sunflower  wanes  and  rusts  ;  when 
the  birds  are  silent  everywhere,  and  the 
grass  looks  like  the  sand  of  a  desert,  and 
even  the  deep  still  hours  of  midnight  are 
stifling  and  without  air,  and  the  cloudless 
heavens  are  as  a  furnace  of  brass. 

There  was  a  broad  ilex-oak  here,  and 
the  boy  was  in  the  shelter  of  its  shade,  and 
the  goats  too.  Musa  sat  down  beside  them. 
She  had  some  black  bread  and  a  flask  of 
water;  he  had  the  same.  They  ate  and 
drank  as  two  children  might  have  done  on 
the  slopes  of  the  Sicilian  hills  when  Theo- 
critus was  shepherd  there. 

The  boy  was  timid  and  yet  attracted  ; 
she  was  displeased,  and  yet  chd  not  wish 
to  be  unkind.  The  great  heat  was  around 
them  and  above  them,  like  a  sea  of  hot 
vapour ;  there  seemed  no  hues  anywlicrc 
that   were    not   either   grey   or   yellow ;    it 


192  IX  MAHEMMA. 

looked  as  though  dull  sinking  fires  were 
burning  on  the  horizon  all  around  in  a  rinej 
of  flame  ;  it  was  always  so  every  morning 
and  every  evening  while  the  sun  was  pass- 
ing through  the  sign  of  Leo. 

Musa  sat  and  thought,  How  could  she 
descend  to  her  refuge  without  this  lad  learn- 
ing the  secret  of  it  ?  As  for  him,  he  had 
taken  his  pipe,  and  was  playing  on  it  those 
melodious,  carolling,  tender  little  lays  Avhich 
had  earned  him  his  name  from  the  people 
of  the  little  mountain  hamlet  where  he 
lived. 

Musa,  while  she  pondered,  on  her  own 
thoughts  intent,  lifted  her  voice  and  sang  ; 
Zirlo  sang  too.  The  clear  voices  burst  over 
the  silence  of  the  songless  moor,  and  floated 
away  over  the  silence  of  the  buried  tombs. 
Pan  might  have  listened  with  joy  had  not 
Christ  killed  him. 

When  their  voices  were  tired  of  leaping 
and  falUng,  and  piercing  with  sweet  sound 
the  drowsy  heaviness  of  the  atmosphere, 
they  drank  the  water  of  their  flasks  and  ate 
of  their  black  crusts ;  the  iiex  leaves,  black 
and  grey  against  the  yellow  sunshine, 
drooping  above  their  heads,  unstirred  by 
any  breeze. 


IN  MAREMMA.  193 

Suddenly  the  grazing  goats  stopped 
browsino^  and  beij^an  to  bleat  uneasilv,  stand- 
ing  with  their  heads  seaAvards. 

'  There  will  be  a  storm,'  said  ZefTerino. 
'  We  cannot  see  it  coming,  but  they  can.' 

'  If  I  were  out  at  sea,  I  should  know,' 
said  Musa.  She  was  not  so  familiar  with 
the  portents  of  the  land. 

In  less  than  ten  minutes  the  storm  broke, 
sudden,  violent,  terrible  as  only  a  rainless 
storm  can  be.  The  sky  was  a  sheet  of 
lightning ;  the  wind  rose  in  fury ;  the 
thunder  pealed  as  if  heaven  and  earth  were 
meeting ;  clouds  of  dust  were  driven  be- 
fore the  wind  over  the  moor ;  and  herds  of 
buffaloes  with  their  liorns  sloped  down- 
ward, rushed,  like  a  whirlwind  themselves, 
over  the  ground  towards  the  shelter  of  the 
thickets. 

The  goats  massed  together,  with  stern 
outward,  resisted  the  force  of  the  hurricane 
as  best  they  could,  trembling  and  staggering 
as  the  wind  struck  them  like  a  scourge. 
Musa,  who  stood  erect,  though  she  was 
shaken  like  a  young  tree,  seized  the  boy,  who 
had  fallen  prone  upon  his  face. 

'  Get  up  ;  bring  the  beasts  into    shelter 
or  they  will  perish !'  she  cried  to  him  as  slic 
VOL.  I.  o 


194  IX  MAREMMA. 


grasped   him   by   his  shirt  of  goatskin  and 
plucked  him  from  the  ground. 

'  Shelter  !  There  is  no  shelter  for  leagues 
round  ! '  he  screamed,  and  strove  to  cast  him- 
self again  upon  his  face. 

Slie  dragged  him  up  by  sheer  superior 
strencrth. 

'  There  is  shelter,'  she  said.  '  Follow  me, 
and  make  the  flock  follow  you.' 

Deafened  and  blinded  by  the  hurricane 
and  the  dust-storm,  she  managed  to  keep  her 
feet,  and  reach  the  aperture  that  she  had 
covered  ;  she  tore  away  the  brambles  and 
boughs  till  the  stone  steps  were  laid  bare  ; 
then  by  force  of  will  and  force  of  limb 
together  dragged  the  little  shepherd  down 
with  her  whilst  she  called  his  beasts.  More 
sagacious  than  he,  with  a  headlong  rush  the 
goats  descended  into  the  refuge,  while  the 
storm  wliich  for  one  instant  had  lulled  broke 
out  afi  esh  with  increased  violence. 

Musa,  with  the  goats  around  her,  stood 
in  the  warrior's  tomb.  Zefferino  was  trem- 
bling and  white  with  terror ;  he  had  fallen 
on  his  knees. 

'  Oh,  you  coward !'  she  cried,  with  bound- 
less scorn ;  she,  the  daughter  of  Saturnino, 
had  no  fear  in  her. 


IN  MAHEMMA.  195 


Zirlo  did  not  hear ;  lie  was  so  aghast  at 
his  OAvn  phght  that  he  was  scarcely  sensible. 
Above  head  the  tempest  was  pealing  with 
awfid  fury  ;  the  echoes  of  the  thunder  pealed 
throuo'h  the  hollowed  rocks ;  but  the  tomb 
was  a  safe  shelter,  the  goats  gathered  them- 
selves too'ether  ac^ainst  the  bed  of  the 
vanished  king,  and  were  no  more  afraid  : 
they  bleated  gently,  that  was  all. 

'  They  say  their  prayers,'  said  Musa. 
'  Say  yours  if  you  are  so  timid/ 

Zirlo  beu'an  to  murmur  words  that  he 
had  been  taught  to  say  at  mass. 

Musa  stood  and  looked  at  him  in  the 
semi-darkness,  with  pity  and  contempt. 

'  What  would  you  do  on  the  sea,'  she 
said,  '  when  there  is  a  storm  ?  There  are 
iifty  every  summer.' 

'  I  was  not  frightened  when  I  was  on  my 
face,'  whispered  Zefferino  trembling.  'But 
this  place,  this  dark  cold  place — where  am 
I  ?  And  your  eyes  blaze  so  ;  you  frighten 
me  more.' 

'  Do  my  eyes  blaze  P '  said  Musa,  who 
was  pleased  to  hear  it.  '  If  they  do,  it  is 
because  you  are  such  a  coward.  Zirlo  do 
they  call  you  ?  A  thrush  wT)idd  Jiave 
more  sense.     This    is    mine,  mine,  do    you 

0  2 


196  IN  MAREMMA. 


hear,  this  place,  and  you  must  never  speak 

of  it; 

Zirlo  stared  at  her  in  the  twihght. 

'  Yours  ? '  he  said,  wonderingly. 

'  Mine,  because  I  found  it,'  said  Musa, 
and,  added  under  her  breath,  '  Of  course,  it 
is  theirs.' 

'It  is  a  cave,'  said  Zirlo,  as  his  eyes 
wandered  over  the  vault  and  the  walls. 

'  It  is  a  tomb,'  said  Musa. 

The  boy  shuddered. 

'  You  say  that  to  frighten  me.  There  is 
never  a  tomb  made  like  this.  A  little  hole 
in  the  earth,  and  a  wooden  box  pushed  in — 
that  is  what  they  call  a  tomb.  I  know,  for 
they  buried  my  mother  last  year.' 

'  You  have  no  mother  ?  ' 

'No.' 

'  I  too  have  none.' 

The  common  misfortune  drew  them 
together  a  little  nearer ;  Zirlo's  eyes  filled 
with  tears  ;  Musa  stood  grave  and  absorbed  ; 
he  knew  all  he  lost ;  she  could  only  imagine 
it.  The  storm  still  beat  above  ground ; 
they  could  hear  the  breaking  of  boughs, 
the  rushing  of  winds,  the  scampering  hoofs 
of  terrified  animals  running  hither  and 
thither. 


IN  MAREMMA.  197 

'  If  it  would  only  rain,'  said  tlie  boy 
listening. 

'  It  will  not  rain,'  said  Miisa.  '  It  will 
not  rain  for  a  month,  perhaps  not  then  ;  tlie 
fishermen  said  so  this  morning.' 

There  is  something  awful  and.  weird  in  a 
rainless  storm,  that  seems  unnatural,  and  is 
more  deadly  far  to  vegetation  than  the 
storms  that  drench  and  flood  the  land. 
When  they  are  passed  they  leave  a  benison 
behind  them,  at  least  to  all  the  sylva  and 
the  flora,  in  the  freshened  soil,  the  deepened 
streams,  the  brimming  rivers.  But  a  rainless 
storm  is  like  a  loveless  life  ;  it  brings  and 
gains  no  blessing. 

The  cliildren  in  the  hollowed  rock  stood 
and  listened  to  the  sounds  in  the  earth  above. 
If  it  would  only  have  rained,  how  welcome  it 
"would  have  been  to  hear  the  sweet  cool 
fall  of  the  big  rain  drops !  But  it  seldom 
rains  in  August  even  in  moist  Maremma, 
and  besides  '  there  is  a  red  moon,'  said  Zirlo, 
in  the  common  superstition  of  all  husbandry. 

To  the  red  moon  the  vine-dresser  and 
the  tiller  of  the  fields  ascribe  one-half  their 
ills.  When  the  red  pestilent  dew  is  over 
leaf  and  soil  no  peasant  will  ever  believe  that 
it  is  not  the  moon  that  causes  it. 


198  IJSf  MAREMMA. 

It  grew  darker  aud  darker,  the  roll  of 
the  thunder  was  continuous,  the  blaze  of  the 
lightning  lit  up  now  and  again  all  the 
shadows  of  the  Etruscan  sepulchres. 

'  I  am  afraid  ! '  cried  Zirlo,  and  hid  his 
face,  as  the  electric  glare  shone  on  the 
banquet  painted  on  the  walls. 

'  There  is  nothing  that  will  hurt  you,' 
said  Musa  more  gently,  remembering  the 
great  awe  that  had  fallen  even  upon  her  in 
this  place. 

'  But  who  are  those  ?  '  said  Zirlo,  trem- 
bling, pointing  to  the  figures  of  the  frescoes. 

'  They  are  pictures  of  the  dead ;  the 
dead  of  lono-  a^fo,'  said  Musa  with  a  wistful 
sadness  and  reverence  in  her  voice.  '  They 
used  to  reign  here — here — and  they  must 
have  been  happy,  I  think ;  and  they  had 
flowers  ;  see,  tliere  are  the  water-lilies  like 
our  lilies  now,  and  the  dog  like  my  own 
white  dog,  and  the  pipe  like  that  pipe  you 
have  cut  from  a  reed.  And  yet  it  is  all  long, 
long  ago,  Joconda  says ;  so  long  that  the 
earth  has  had  time  to  pile  rocks  and  grow 
trees  above  their  graves,  and  men  have  quite 
forgotten  who  they  were.' 

Zirlo  was  silent ;  this  was  a  tliin^  he 
could  in  no  way  grasp,  and  of  time  he  had 


AV  MAliEMMA.  109 


no  notion.  If  lie  had  been  asked  how  long  lie 
had  hved,  he  would  have  said  that  he  could 
not  remember ;  he  liad  been  always  on  the 
moor,  always  with  the  goats  ;  he  knew  Avhat 
to  do  for  them,  and  that  was  all  he  did 
know.  His  fathers  before  him  had  been 
shepherds,  and  he  had  been  born  in  a  hut 
made  of  reeds  and  bramble  amidst  the  goats, 
and  he  had  sucked  them  as  the  kids  did,  and 
grown  up  from  a  baby  to  a  child  amidst 
them,  and  then  had  had  a  goatskin  garment 
girded  about  his  loins,  and  a  staff  put  in  his 
small  hand,  and  had  been  told  to  take  the 
kids  to  pasture.  That  was  all  so  long,  long 
a^o  to  him ;  he  did  not  think  these  dead 
people  that  she  spoke  of  could  be  so  far  away 
as  that. 

Nothing  is  so  impossible  for  the  unedu- 
cated mind  to  grasp  as  the  idea  of  time. 
Musa  only  understood  it  ^vith  her  imagina- 
tion ;  her  fancy  enabled  her  to  conjecture 
what  her  knowledga  left  a  blank.  But  Zirlo 
had  not  this  fatal  gift ;  his  mind  had  never 
got  beyond  the  marsh  and  moor,  the  flock 
and  fold.  The  bare  l^old  scarp  that  was 
called  San  Lionardo  was  the  outmost 
boundary  of  his  world.  As  he  thought  that 
the  ivy  and  the  honeysuckle  only  grew  for 


200  IN  MAREMMA. 


his  goats,  so  lie  thought  that  the  sun  and 
the  rain  were  only  made  for  them. 

It  is  this  narrowness  of  the  peasant  mind 
^vhich  philosophers  never  fairly  understand, 
and  demagogues  understand  but  too  well, 
and  warp  to  their  own  selfish  purpose  and 
profits. 

When  the  hurricane  had  lulled  and  they 
could  leave  their  refuge,  Musa  bade  him 
good  day,  and  took  her  own  way  to  the 
Sasso  Scritto,  three  miles  off;  the  storm 
had  quite  passed,  Ijut  it  had  only  left  the 
earth  more  arid  and  more  desolate.  Broken 
branches  strewed  the  ground,  and  the  earth 
had  yawned  open  in  many  places  as  if  by  an 
earthquake  ;  the  lizards  swarmed,  making 
the  dry  grass  crack  and  rustle  as  they 
kissed  or  fought ;  here  and  there  out  of 
a  hole  a  snake  thrust  his  black  or  leaden- 
coloured  head.  The  intense  heat  lay  like  a 
fog  on  all  the  country ;  a  heat  breathless, 
scorching,  cruel,  in  which  all  hues  were 
blanched  and  all  animal  movement  seemed 
suspended. 

It  was  near  the  close  of  day;  the  sun 
almost  touched  the  horizon;  it  was  dully 
red,  and  rayless. 

When  she  reached  the  edge  of  the  waves 


IN  MAREMMA.  201 


the  red  globe  seemed  to  rest  upon  tlie  water  ; 
a  cone  of  luminous  white  light  replaced  it  in 
the  heavens  ;  and  on  each  side  of  it  thei-e 
^flowed  another  crimson  sun. 

It  was  but  the  optical  effect  w^ell  known 
to  astronomers,  due  to  the  refraction  and 
reflection  of  light.  But  it  terrified  philo- 
sophers and  astrologists  and  conquerors  in 
days  of  old,  and  startled  her  now. 

The  long  curved  shores,  the  sea  still  as 
'  a  painted  ocean,'  the  grey  skies  with  their 
pallid  mists,  the  black  heaps  of  putrefying 
weed  upon  the  beach,  the  fierce  sickly  heat 
that  had  a  pressure  on  the  brain  like  the 
heavy  hand  of  an  invisible  god — these  were 
all  too  familiar  to  her  to  seem  strange,  but 
the  white  iridescent  intense  lii>"ht  of  this 
atmospheric  phoenomenon  she  had  never 
seen,  for  in  these  latitudes  it  is  rare. 

She  stood  still  and  looked  at  it  as 
Antoninus,  and  Pliny,  and  Constantine  had 
looked  before  her  in  the  same  wonder ; 
herself,  black  as  a  figure  on  a  camera  against 
the  yellow  haze  of  sea  and  sky. 

As  she  gazed  in  some  vague  awe,  be- 
holding the  sun  thus  multiplied,  she  saw  tlie 
head  of  a  man  in  the  sea.  He  seemed  not 
to  swim,  but  to  be  at  the  pleasure  of  the 


202  IN  MAREMMA. 


water  swell  which  floated  him  wliere  it  would. 
He  never  moved,  or  struggled,  or  seemed  to 
exert  himself  at  all.  Musa  looking  intensely, 
used  to  all  the  ways  of  the  water  and  those 
who  trusted  themselves  to  it,  saw  that  the 
swimmer  could  not  make  any  way,  that  he 
was  cramped  and  paralysed.  A  mere  black- 
looking  log,  he  lay  on  the  glassy  surface 
with  the  vertical  transparent  gleam  of  the 
luminous  column  behind  him.  Then,  as  she 
looked,  slowly,  quite  slowly,  he  sank. 

He  was  drowning,  peacefully,  unresist- 
ingly, as  the  sun  seemed  itself  to  sink  into 
the  sea,  tranquilly  and  of  its  own  will. 

Musa  wasted  not  one  moment,  nor 
thought  again  of  the  apparition  on  the 
heavens,  but  waded  in,  and  struck  out 
towards  him. 

The  water  was  still  warm  from  the  heat 
of  the  day ;  it  felt  oily  and  unwholesome ; 
tlie  storm  had  left  a  heavy  turbulent  move- 
ment in  it  that  was  like  a  tide  and  was  hard 
to  breast.  But  she  had  lived  in  the  sea  for 
hours  most  days  of  her  life,  and  was  a  strong 
swimmer,  capable  of  long  exertion.  The 
body  rose  up,  and  once  again  sank,  as  she 
neared  it ;  she  knew  it  would  rise  yet  again ; 
if  only  she  could  be  certaui  where  it  would 


IN  MAREMMA,  203 


rise  it  would  be  possible  she  thought  to  her- 
self to  save  him  yet.  She  made  her  way 
steadily  and  swiftly,  cleaving  the  Mediter- 
ranean with  her  brown  supple  arms  and 
keeping  her  head  and  throat  well  above 
water.  It  would  have  been  better  if  she 
had  had  the  boat,  she  knew ;  but  it  was  ten 
yards  off  her,  moored  under  the  Sasso  Scritto, 
and  it  would  have  wasted  many  minutes  to 
unloose  and  launch  it. 

She  rested  on  the  waves  a  moment  and 
watched  for  the  man,  who  misrht  be  drowned 
and  dead  by  now,  to  appear  again  ;  it  was  very 
dark  upon  the  sea  ;  the  brief  light  of  the 
parhelion  had  faded  ;  the  sun  and  its 
phantoms  had  alike  gone  from  sight ;  tliere 
was  only  a  dull  red  spent  colour  far  away 
in  the  west,  and  the  moon  had  not  yet 
risen. 

At  last  something  came  in  sight ;  it 
w^ould  have  been  hard  to  tell  what  it  might 
be  in  the  dusk,  and  with  the  sea  churned  to 
white  foam  from  the  storm  as  it  was. 

But  she  swam  to  and  seized  it ;  she  felt 
the  round  shape  of  a  human  head  in  her 
hand,  and,  being  close  to  it,  she  saw  tlie 
dusky  bulk  of  a  human  body.  The  skull  was 
close  shaven,  and  there  was  nothing  on  the 


204  IN  MAHEMMA. 

body  to  hold  by  except  a  trouser-belt  about 
the  loins,  which  she  could  dmily  see  as  the 
foam  broke  over  it  and  the  motion  of  the 
water  rocked  it.  She  grasped  the  belt  w^ith 
one  hand,  and,  swimming  wdth  the  other, 
turned  now  flat  upon  her  breast  instead  of 
on  her  back,  she  towed  the  body  behind 
her  towards  the  land,  as  she  might  have 
towed  a  piece  of  driftwood. 

She  thought  he  w^as  dead,  but  having 
thus  reached  him  she  could  not  abandon 
him  ;  and  there  might  be  breath  in  him  still. 
Slie  had  seen  drowned  men  restored  to  life. 

Happily  for  her  and  him,  she  was  but  a 
little  way  from  shore,  or  she  could  not  have 
continued  to  push  and  drag  the  inert  mass 
that  lay  so  heavily  upon  the  water.  The  sea 
upon  that  portion  of  the  beach  was  shallow  ; 
she  soon  stood  upon  her  feet  and  waded  up 
to  her  middle,  always  dragging  the  senseless 
swimmer  with  her  till  she  gained  the  pebbles 
and  the  sand,  and  let  him  drop  on  them. 

It  w^as  now  very  dark. 

She  bent  over  him  and  breathed  into  his 
nostrils,  and  tried  to  make  him  vomit  the 
water  from  his  lungs,  and  did  what  she  had 
seen  the  fishermen  of  Santa  Tarsilla  do  for 
any  one  of  their  number  overcome  with  such 


IN  MAREMMA.  205 

exhaustion.  The  fisliermen's  were  rude  ways, 
not  founded  on  any  scientific  reasons,  but 
often  tried  in  actual  experience  ;  they  some- 
times succeeded  and  they  succeeded  now  ;  tlie 
heart  of  the  man  began  to  beat  feebly,  the 
sea  water  poured  from  his  mouth,  a  shiver 
ran  through  all  his  frame ;  he  awoke  to  life. 
He  was  a  large,  sinewy,  supple-limbed  man  ; 
he  wore  canvas  drawers  and  a  belt  of 
leather ;  he  was  burnt  almost  black  by  the 
san  from  the  forehead  to  the  waist.  He  was 
about  fifty  years  old,  or  more.  He  raised 
himself  into  a  sitting  posture  on  the  sands, 
and  stared  into  the  dusk  with  wild,  fierce, 
suspicious  eyes,  not  knowing  where  he  was, 
ngt  seeing  tlie  girl  in  the  deep  sliadows,  not 
understanding  what  had  come  to  liim. 

'  Do  not  give  me  up,'  he  muttered  ;  and 
his  hands  felt  at  his  ankles  and  his  wrists,  as 
if  seeking  something  familiar  that  was  not 
there.  He  hfted  his  head  and  glared  around, 
trying  to  pierce  the  gloom.  He  was  con- 
fused and  stupefied,  but  liis  eyes  had  ferocity 
and  fear  like  those  of  a  captured  wild 
beast. 

'  If  I  had  only  a  knife  ! '  lie  muttered.  '  If 
I  had  only  a  knife !' 

Musa  listened  and    was    soi'rv  for  him. 


206  IN  MAREMMA. 


He  was  afraid,  this  strong,  rough,  savage 
creature ;  afraid  of  something — perhaps  of 
capture.  She  did  not  think  that  he  might 
be  dangerous  to  her.  She  touched  him  on 
the  shoulder. 

'  Why  do  you  want  a  knife  ?  And  what 
is  it  you  dread  ?  ' 

He  looked  at  her  and  reahsed  in  a  dim 
way  that  it  was  only  a  girl,  a  child,  whose 
figure  loomed  dark  between  him  and  the 
grey  sea  sand. 

'  How  came  I  here  ?  '  he  asked  her,  con- 
fused still.  There  was  scarce  any  light ;  but 
the  httle  there  was,  reflected  from  the  skies, 
showed  her  a  face  so  sullen  in  its  despair,  so 
brutal  in  its  ferocity  that,  bold  child  tliough 
she  was,  she  trembled  as  she  saw. 

'  You  were  drowning,'  she  said  simply. 
'  I  saved  you.     Tliat  was  all' 

'  You  saved  me ! ' 

He  looked  at  her  and  laughed  with  a 
liard,  grinding,  joyless  laugh  that  grated  on 
her  ears. 

'  YoiiV  he  echoed,  '  you  are  a  baby.  It 
is  a  lie.     There  are  men  hidden ' 

'  There  is  no  one.  I  am  strong.  I  swam 
and  saved  you.     I  was  foolish  to  do  it.' 

He   was   still    sitting   on   the  sand,   his 


IN  MAREMMA.  207 


soaked  canvas  clinging  to  him,  his  breast 
and  back  bare  and  looking  like  the  torso  of 
a  bronze  Hercules ;  his  head  was  shaved 
close,  his  shoidder  had  a  brand. 

Musa  felt  the  bright  brave  blood  in  her 
veins  run  cold.  She  had  heard  of  galley- 
slaves  ;  she  knew  now  that  she  w\as  facing- 
one,  alone  on  the  lonely  shore. 

'  I  understand,'  she  said  very  low.    '  You 

have  escaped ? ' 

He  moved  his  head  in  assent. 
'  You    will    not    betray   me  ? '    he   said 
quickly.     '  If  you   do,    though   I  have   no 
knife,  I  will  kill  you.     You  are  young.     One 
coidd  crush  you  to  death.' 

'  You  could,'  said  the  child,  and  stood 
looking  down  on  him,  wondering  why  she 
had  seen  him  this  hot,  silent  night — why  she 
had  saved  him. 

Another  of  her  age  would  have  fled  in 
terror  ;  Musa  did  not  leave  him.  His  very 
ferocity  and  wretchedness  rooted  her  there 
and  kept  her  wondering,  and  forgetful,  or 
indifferent,  of  personal  pity. 

'  How  did  you  escape  ?  By  swimming  ?  ' 
she  asked  breathlessly  ;  the  longing  for  the 
bold,  strange  tale  that  he  must  have  to  tell 
overcame  every  other  feeling  in  her. 


208  I^  MAREMMA. 


*  Are  you  alone  ?  '  he  said,  disregarding. 
'  If  you  lie  I  will  tear  you  with  my  teeth, 
and  kill  you,  so.' 

'  Why  should  I  lie  ?  ' 
'  To  hunt  me  down.' 

'  I  would  not  help  them  to  hunt  you ; 
not  more  than  I  would  to  hunt  the  boar.' 

He  stared  at  her  with  brooding,  blood- 
shot eyes  that  glowed  in  the  gloom  like  a 
jackal's. 

'  Was  I  drowning,  do  you  say  ?  ' 
'  Yes,  you  were  drowning  :  who  are  you  P ' 
He  ground  his  teeth  that  Hashed  white 
like  an  angry  dog's. 

'  Who  ?  Who  ?  I  am  nothing.  I  have 
no  name ;  I  am  numbered  like  a  beast  of 
burden.     I  am  dead  and  buried.     But  if  I 

had  a  knife  ! — if  I  had  a  knife ! ' 

'  What  would  you  do  ?  ' 
'  I  should  be  a  man  once  more.    To  have 
a  knife  and  a  gun,  that  is  to  be  a  man.' 

His  head  sank  on  his  chest ;  he  was  stupid, 
and  his  mind  began  to  wander  a  little ;  he 
had  been  in  the  water  for  hours ;  he  was 
numb  and  felt  sti-ange.  He  stared  at  her 
with  reddened  eyes  that  were  black  and 
sombre  save  for  the  flame  that  could  light 
up  in  tli(3m. 


IN  MAREMMA.  209 


'  You  are  a  strange  wench.  Perliaps  you 
mean  well.     If  you  did  save  me ' 

'  I  did  save  you.' 

'  You  are  strong  and  bold  then.  Yes,  I 
swam.  I  have  lain  hid  on  the  rocks  at  night 
and  crept  along  the  coast  by  day ;  we  had 
sighted  a  boat;  we  sculled  along  in  her, 
but  in  the  storm  just  now  she  heeled  over  ; 
we  swam  for  our  lives ;  he  who  Avas  with 
me  is  drowned  I  think.  Just  now  I  grew 
blind  and  numb,  and  I  could  not  make 
way  any  more.  I  suppose  it  was  being  so 
long  in  the  sea.  I  am  thirsty.  Give  me  to 
drink.' 

She  had  had  the  half  emptied  gourd  slung 
at  her  side,  and  had  set  it  down  on  the 
beach  when  she  plunged  into  the  water.  She 
held  it  to  him,  and  he  drank  it  dry. 

'  Were  it  but  wine  ! '  he  said,  with  an 
oath.     '  Give  me  a  knife  now.' 

'  I  have  no  knife.' 

'  You  can  get  one.' 

'  Not  here.     Tliis  is  all  wild  coast.' 

He  sat  up  and  stared  still  sullenly  into 
the  gloom ;  he  was  bewildered,  but  he 
remained  suspicious  and  ferocious  like  tlie 
tiger  chased  by  night  and  dazzled  l)y  torches 
and  fire. 

VOL.  T.  p 


210  i:^  mahemMA. 

'I  was  Saturnino,'  he   said,  low  in  his 
teeth. 

She    understood.      She    had    heard  'of 
Saturnino. 

'  If  I   had   only  a  knife  ! '  he  repeated  ; 
'  only  a  knife  or  a  gun  ! ' 

His  bronze-like  shoulders  glistened  with 
the  salt  of  the  sea ;  he  sat  erect  on  the 
beach  regaining  strength  and  consciousness 
with  each  breath ;  the  heat  of  the  night  was 
around  them  like  steam  :  it  seemed  to  her 
startled  fancy  as  if  his  eyes  and  his  mouth 
gave  out  fire.  She  was  rooted  to  the  ground 
as  by  some  spell ;  a  fascination,  that  she  was 
powerless  to  resist  held  her  there,  by  this 
man,  though  she  knew  he  could  turn  and 
rend  her  as  the  wild  boar  tore  the  young 
dogs. 

'Tell  me  how  you  got  away,'  she  said 
very  low  at  last,  spurred  on  to  rashness  by 
an  unquenchable  longing  to  hear  and  know. 
'  Tell  me,  tell  me  ;  I  will  tell  no  one  else  ; 
never,  never,  will  I  tell.' 

The  hunted  creature  that  had  once  been 
the  superb  chieftain  of  the  hills  did  not 
heed.  He  was  looking  northward  down  the 
loner,  low,  level  shore  that  shone  ashen  and 
white  in  the  strong  moonlight. 


IN  MAREMMA.  211 


'Is  there  no  place  to  hide  in?'  lie 
muttered  ;  '  is  there  not  a  rock,  not  a  stone  ? 
Is  it  all  bare — bare  and  accursed.  They 
will  come  hunting  at  daybreak.' 

'  Do  they  know  you  are  a^vay  ? ' 

'  Know  ?  Every  day  I  baulk  them  and 
beat  them.  I  lie  hid,  and  I  hear  their  feet 
on  the  stones  above  me.  I  see  the  shine  of 
their  steel  through  the  gaps.  Where  can  I 
hide  ?     You  are  of  the  coast  ?  ' 

'  Yes.' 

'  Where  can  I  hide  ?  Hide  me.  If  you 
betray  me  I  wdll  kill  you — somehow.' 

Musa  did  not  answer.    She  was  thinking. 

'  I  know  of  one  place,'  she  said  slowly. 

'  On  the  shore  ?  ' 

'  No.     Inland  ;  a  little  way.' 

He  rose  with  difficulty ;  a  tall,  gaunt, 
terrible  form,  black  and  w^eird  a^cainst  the 
shining  sea  and  the  starry  skies. 

'  Lead  me  there.  Eemember,  I  need  no 
knife  to  kill  you.  You  are  young,  and  to 
me  are  little.' 

'  I  am  not  afraid  that  you  should  kill  me.' 

She  spoke  the  truth  ;  she  was  not  afraid. 
An  immense  pity,  and  what  was  that  stronger 
sister  of  pity — sympathy — was  in  her  for  the 
hunted,  houseless  man,  and  the  strength  of 

r  '2 


212  IJV  MAREMMA. 

that  emotion  absorbed  into  itself  all  weaker, 
slisfhter  feelino-s,  and  made  selfish  dread 
impossible. 

She  was  awed,  but  she  Avas  not  afraid. 
She  wished  to  help  him  as  she  had  wished 
to  help  the  driven  boar  at  bay. 

Her  lustrous,  unfathomable,  star-like  eyes 
looked  up  into  his  wild  and  sombre  ones ; 
they  did  not  know  one  another,  but  each 
trusted  the  other  after  that  one  long  look. 

'  Come,'  she  said  simply,  and  struck  in- 
land. 

The  hght  was  clear  almost  as  the  day ; 
the  pale,  sad  shores  looked  wan ;  the  brow^n 
and  shadowy  moors  had  a  mysterious,  un- 
earthly calm ;  the  heat  brooded  on  sea  and 
earth  like  a  cloud  of  pestilence  slowly 
gathering  its  forces  to  destroy.  From  far 
off  down  the  shore  in  the  intense  stillness 
there  came  a  sound.  It  w^as  the  sound  of 
the  horses'  feet  of  the  carabineers:  they 
were  seeking  the  galley-slave. 

He  listened  with  pricked  ears,  and 
crouched,  like  the  hunted  fox;  then  he 
followed  the  chiW,  their  two  shadows  falling 
one  on  another  in  sable  blackness  on  the 
pallor  of  the  sand.  Musa  led  him  to  the 
tomb  of  the  Lucumo. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

^SlphE  followed  her  mutely,  and  asked 
her  nothing.  He  did  not  doubt 
her.  He  did  not  question  her. 
The  sound  of  the  horses'  hoofs  in 
pursuit  had  gone  from  off  the  stillness  of  the 
night.  His  quick  and  apprehensive  glance 
told  him  of  the  excellence  against  discovery 
of  the  tangled  scrub  and  tliorny  brake 
through  which  she  led  him.  When  they 
descended  into  the  tomb  he  asked  nothing 
still ;  to  others  it  might  be  a  tomb — to  him 
it  was  only  a  hollow  in  the  ground  as  is  his 
earth  to  the  fox. 

'  It  is  good,'  he  said,  as  he  looked  around 
him  in  tlie  chamber  of  stone. 

She  drew  the  lamp  fortli  and  lighted  it. 
His  glance  ghstened  ;  he  saw  gold, 


214  IN  MAREMMA. 


'  What  place  is  tliis  ? '  be  muttered,  the 
sight  of  the  gold  stinging  his  senses  to  life. 

'  It  is  a  grave,'  said  Musa,  in  a  hushed 
and  tender  voice.  'And  these  are  sacred 
things.    Sacred  to  the  dead,  and  to  the  gods.' 

He  laughed  ;  his  laugh  was  hard  and 
low,  and  hurt  her. 

'  The  place  is  good,'  he  said  once  more. 
'  Is  there  food  in  it  ?  ' 

'  There  is  no  food.  But  I  will  bring  you 
some  at  morning ;  some  bread  at  least.' 

'  And  a  knife.     Bring  me  a  knife.' 

She  hesitated. 

'  I  will  bring  you  bread  and  wine.' 

'  Bring  me  a  knife.' 

'  But  you  will  kill  some  one  ?  ' 

'What  of  that?  I  will  not  kill  you  if 
you  keep  faith.' 

'  I  did  not  mean  that.     I  am  not  afraid.' 

'  Bring  me  a  knife,  if  you  are  not  afraid.' 

'  I  am  not.' 

'  Who  knows  of  this  place  ?  ' 

'  Not  any  one ;  only  I  know,  and  a  little 
goatherd.' 

'  That  is  well.  Go  get  me  the  bread  ;  I 
am  sick  with  hunger.' 

'  I  cannot ;  it  is  miles  off  that  I  live,  but 
at  daybreak  I  will  be  here.' 


IN  MAREMMA.  215 

A  gleam  of  sullen,  sus])icious  wonder 
flared  like  a  dull  flame  in  his  eyes. 

'  Why  should  you  do  this  ?  You  cannot 
care.' 

'  You  are  hunted,'  she  answered  simply. 

That  was  the  truth  ;  he  was  hunted,  and 
so  she  aided  him. 

'  You  can  sleep  there,'  she  said  to 
him,  and  pointed  to  the  couch  of  stone  on 
which  the  golden  warrior  had  rested.  '  I 
am  sorry  that  I  have  no  food.  I  will  try 
and  be  quick.     But  I  am  tired,  and  it  is  far.' 

His  eyes  gazed  at  her  sullenly,  wonder- 
ingly,  yet  with  a  gleam  of  gratitude,  like  the 
gleam  in  the  eyes  of  a  fierce  dog  which,  after 
being  lashed  and  chained  through  years,  is 
loosened  by  a  tender  hand,  and  wonders,  dis- 
trusts, and  yet  is  thankful. 

'  If  you  do  come  back  you  will  be  brave 
as  men  are  rarely,'  he  said,  with  a  gloom 
deep  as  night  upon  his  darkening  face. 

'  I  will  come,'  she  said  simply  ;  then  she 
looked  up  once  in  his  face,  put  the  lamp 
down  on  the  stone,  and  went. 

'  Perhaps  I  should  have  killed  her,' 
thought  Saturnino.  '  It  would  have  been 
safer,  and  it  would  have  been  easy — that 
small  throat.' 


216  IN  MAREMMA. 


His  fingers  closed  instinctively  as  though 
they  were  closing  upon  the  slender  neck. 

But  Musa  was  away,  running  fleet 
through  the  pallid  moonhght. 

When  she  reached  the  edge  of  the  sea 
there  was  no  ^ound  ;  her  boat  was  rocking 
on  the  surf ;  the  moon  had  climbed  into  the 
zenith  ;  far  away  upon  the  white  expanse  of 
the  sands  she  saw  four  dark  specks  no  bigger 
than  four  stalks  of  grass ;  they  were  the 
carabineers  riding  on  southward  towards 
Santa  Tarsilla. 

'  They  are  fools  ! '  said  the  child  with 
scorn.  Had  she  been  in  pursuit  of  any 
creature,  she  would  have  noticed  the  signs 
on  the  sands  disturbed  where  she  had 
drascred  the  swimmer  ashore  ;  she  would  not 
have  ridden  by  unheeding  as  they  did,  and 
passed  on,  as  they  were  doing,  to  Santa  Tar- 
silla unsuspecting. 

'  They  are  fools ! '  she  said  to  herself 
with  that  pleasure  in  the  defeat  of  authority 
and  that  contempt  for  its  narrow  means  and 
narrow  sight  which  had  been  born  in  her 
with  her  blood.  Then  she  loosened  her 
boat  and  rowed  backward  to  the  little 
town. 

The  carabineers  were  always  in  sight-— 


JN  MAREMMA.  217 

little  dark  specks  in  the  white  space  of  the 
sandy  shore. 

She  was  very  tired.  Strong  and  young 
though  she  was,  she  was  exhausted  by  the 
efforts  she  had  made  and  by  the  long  hours 
in  which  all  her  muscles  had  been  strained 
to  unusual  effort.  The  heat  was  still  in- 
tense, for  in  midsummer  in  this  country  the 
heat  in  darkness  is  often  more  oppressive 
than  in  the  hours  when  the  sun  is  shining.  At 
midnight  and  for  a  little  after  midnight,  it 
will  at  times  be  chill,  but  before  midnight  it 
is  sultry  still.  The  heat,  the  sullen,  heavy 
air,  the  singular  drowsiness  which  comes 
with  the  moon's  rays  after  these  burning 
days,  united  with  the  fatigue  that  she  had 
borne,  made  her  eyes  grow  weary  and 
slumber  steal  upon  her  ere  she  was  aware. 
The  oars  lay  motionless  in  the  rowlocks,  her 
head  dropped,  her  arms  relaxed  their  ten- 
sion, and  she  fell  asleep. 

The  sea  was  calm  as  glass ;  her  boat 
floated  on  it  with  hardly  any  movement ;  the 
great  white  flood  of  moonlight  fell  upon  it 
and  her  ;  together  they  made  but  a  small, 
dark,  motionless  tiling  in  the  midst  of  that 
silvery  lield  of  light.  How  long  she  slept 
she  never  knew ;  when  she  awoke  with  a 


218  IN  MAREMMA. 

start  the  cool  of  the  midnight  had  come  that 
comes  with  the  descent  of  the  dews. 

Used  to  the  look  of  the  sky,  she  knew 
that  it  was  midnight  by  the  stars.  She 
awoke  refreshed,  but  conscience-stricken. 
Every  moment  she  delayed  was  a  pang  of 
hunger  and  of  fear  more  to  the  hunted  man. 
Slie  owed  him  no  service,  but  she  pitied 
him ;  she  had  promised  him ;  these  were 
bonds  that  knit  her  to  him  strongly,  and  that 
it  never  occurred  to  her  to  break. 

But  how  to  oet  him  food  and  wine  and  the 
weapon  that  he  had  prayed  for  ? — the  weapon 
that  she  could  understand  would  be  sweeter 
to  him  than  any  drink  to  his  thirst,  any 
bread  to  his  famine?  She  did  not  know 
how  to  lind  them.  The  houses  of  Santa  Tar- 
silla  would  be  all  shut  and  the  people  all 
slumbering  by  the  time  she  reached  there, 
and  money  she  had  none,  even  had  there 
been  any  place  upon  the  coast  nearer  than 
the  fishing-town  that  was  her  home.  There 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  ask  Joconda. 

She  bent  her  back  to  the  oars  once  more 
and  rowed  on  steadily ;  the  carabineers  had 
passed  out  of  sight  long  before  :  whilst  she 
had  been  asleep  they  had  ridden  down  into 
Santa  Tarsilla  and  had  revived  long  dormant 


IN  MARE  MM  A.  210 


memories    witli    the    old   fomotten    crv    of 
Saturnino. 

She  rowed  on,  and  in  somewhat  less  than 
two  hours  she  saw  the  low,  grey  line  of  the 
stone  piers  of  the  little  harbour,  and  the 
masts  of  the  few  old  useless  boats  that  were 
left  at  home,  and  the  round  white  towers  of 
the  soldiery  and  coastguard.  All  was  quite 
quiet. 

She  steered  herself  carefully  within  the 
shallow  water,  and  fastened  the  boat  to  the 
ring.  Where  the  moonlight  is  so  brilhant 
the  shadows  are  proportionately  black.  She 
could  keep  out  of  sight  in  these  shadows, 
and  did  so,  for  she  heard  voices  and  a  sort 
of  stir  in  the  narrow  lanes  that  parted  the 
houses  one  from  another.  Some  people  Avere 
awake  loitering  languidly  on  the  stones,  or 
hanging  from  the  open  windows.  The 
passage  of  the  mounted  carabineers  through 
the  town  had  roused  them,  but  only  roused 
them  slightly.  To  men  and  women  shaking 
with  ague,  feeble  with  fever,  ill  always 
through  brain  and  bone  with  the  deadly  air, 
it  mattered  very  little  whether  the  law  had 
its  rights  or  not. 

For  the  most  part  they  would  have 
hindered  the  law  rather  than  have  helped 


220  IN  MAREMMA. 


it,  but  even  to  hinder  it  they  would  have 
had  but  scant  energy. 

She  went  by  under  the  shade  cast  by  the 
projecting  roofs  unseen  by  r.ny  of  them. 
She  gathered  from  their  talk  that  the  cara- 
bineers had  searched  through  the  place,  then 
ridden  on ;  men  were  saying  to  one  another 
that  they  remembered  Saturnino  Mastarna, 
remembered  the  day  the  guards  had  brought 
him  down  from  the  hills  with  his  feet  tied 
under  his  horse's  belly  for  the  market  crowd 
to  gaze  at  in  dull  Grosseto. 

'  He  was  a  brave  man,'  they  said  with  a 
reverence  in  their  voices  that  they  never 
gave  to  the  guardians  of  the  law. 

'He  was  brave,'  thought  Musa  as  she 
heard.     *  Then  it  must  be  right  to  save  him.' 

She  went  to  her  own  home. 

All  was  locked  and  barred;  but  she 
pushed  herself  through  the  stable  windows 
by  withdrawing  the  wooden  shutter  on  the 
outside. 

Leone  did  not  give  tongue  ;  he  came 
to  her  in  silence,  only  moving  his  tail 
with  welcome.  Joconda  lay  in  a  sound 
slumber,  so  sound  that  she  might  have  been 
murdered  in  her  sleep  without  awaking.  A 
gleam  from  the  moon  came  in  and  fell  on 


IN  MAREMMA.  221 


her  hard,  toilworn,  withered  face,  and  her 
knotted  hands  and  her  rough  white  hair,  and 
the  sheaf  of  bleached  pahn  blessed  at  Easter 
that  hung  above  her  bed  to  keep  away  evil 
spirits  and  to  please  the  saints. 

Musa  looked  at  her  with  a  great  tender- 
ness gleaming  in  her  own  eyes. 

'  T  am  going  to  rob  her,'  she  tliouglit 
wistfully.  '  But  I  will  tell  her  in  the  morning, 
and  if  she  be  angry  then  I  will  sell  my  gold 
Madonnina  and  pay  her.     That  will  be  just.' 

Without  arousing  the  sleeper  she  took  a 
brown  loaf,  a  flask  of  wine,  and  a  knife. 

Then  she  'soothed  Leone  with  a  caress, 
and  went  as  she  had  come,  softly  and  unseen, 
drawing  the  stable  shutter  behind  lier  care- 
fully when  she  had  gone  forth  again  into  the 
air.  She  was  now  very  tired.  But  her 
spirit  was  strong  and  her  will  resolute.  She 
never  thought  of  not  returning  to  the  tomb. 
Not  to  keep  faith  with  that  friendless  creature 
would  have  seemed  to  her  most  vile.  She 
could  not  have  told  why,  but  wlien  he  had 
every  man's  hand  against  him  it  would  have 
seemed  to  her  vile  and  mean  to  desert  him 
or  betray  him.  To  spare  herself  did  not 
occur  to  her.  She  would  go  on,  she  said  to 
herself;  go  on  till   she  dropped  down,  per- 


222  tK  MAliEMMA. 


haps,  as  the  women  did  sometimes  from 
sunstroke  when  they  were  raking  in  the 
salt. 

It  was  now  day  dawn  ;  the  pale  gleam  of 
mornino-  was  beoinnino-  to  show  over  the  dusk 
of  the  marshes  and  mountains  far  away  inland. 
Another  long,  dreary,  scorching,  cloudless  day 
was  about  to  be  born  on  Maremma. 

She  stepped  once  more  into  the  boat, 
and  once  more  retraced  her  path  across  the 
waters. 

The  gossipers  had  all  gone  within  to 
sleep  a  little ;  a  few  early-risen  toilers,  too 
aged  or  ill  to  be  away  with  the  coral  fleet, 
were  getting  out  tackle  and  nets  to  go  and 
try  for  fish  close  in  to  shore,  or  going  with 
their  sickles  to  cut  the  maritime  rush  that 
grew  in  lonir  lines  here  and  there  between 
the  beach  and  marsh. 

No  one  noticed  her,  because  they  were 
so  used  to  see  her  out  at  daybreak  by.  or  on, 
the  sea. 

She  got  away  safely,  and  rowed  on  along 
the  coast.  She  was  so  fatigued  that  she  could 
barely  grasp  the  oars  and  move  them,  and 
she  made  slow  headway  against  the  inert 
water.  There  were  fish  rising  all  around 
her  ;  before  going  deep  down  in  the  heat  of 


12^  MAREMMA.  223 


the  noon  they  passed  the  early  morning  on 
the  surface,  catching  insects  and  infusoria. 
The  sun  was  not  yet  up,  and  it  was  cool ;  yet 
all  the  landscape  was  pale,  grey,  and  weary- 
looking  as  if  the  night  had  brought  little 
repose  and  httle  freshness. 

It  was  a  toilsome  journey  ;  it  seemed  to 
her  to  be  endless.  Midway  in  it  the  sun 
rose,  and  tlie  touch  of  its  rays  on  her  bare 
arms  felt  like  fire.  In  the  great  heats  even 
sunrise  loses  its  charm,  and  seems  but  a 
trouble  the  more  to  the  tired  eyes  that  wake 
from  startled  sleep  and  wasting  sweats. 

With  pain  and  effort  she  dragged  herself 
ashore  at  last,  three  hours  after  she  had  left 
the  pier  of  Santa  Tarsilla,  and  began  her 
toilsome  walk  throu<]jh  the  close-frrowinjx 
timber  and  thorny  thickets  up  to  the  tomb. 
Her  head  swam,  her  sidit  be^^an  to  fail,  her 
limbs  felt  heavy  as  lead  ;  but  the  thought  of 
the  faith  that  she  kept,  of  the  succour  she 
went  to  give,  sustained  her. 

'He  will  not  doubt  now,'  she  thought. 
'He  will  be  glad.' 

She  had  brought  away  with  her,  as  well 
as  the  knife,  three  silver  coins  that  had 
been  given  her  once  by  a  traveller  whom 
she   had  guided  across  the   marshes ;   they 


224  IN  MAHEMMA. 


were  all  she  had ;  she  meant  to  give  them 
to  Saturmno. 

She  pushed  her  way  through  the  cistus, 
and  bearberry,  and  rosemary  ;  now  and 
then  a  partridge  flew  up  before  her  feet,  but 
there  were  no  birds  singing ;  the  season  of 
song  was  passed.  There  were  hundreds  of 
lizards  rushing  to  and  fro,  and  the  big  wood 
rat,  the  fox,  and  the  snipe,  and  the  plover, 
were  still  astir,  going  home  after  their 
night's  foray  ;  that  was  all. 

She  pushed  the  bushes  aside  and  ran 
down  the  steps,  and  entered  the  cave  without 
fear,  thinking  only  of  the  help  that  she 
brought.     The  tomb  was  empty. 

In  answer  to  her  shouts  there  was  only  a 
dull  echo  thrown  back  from  the  roof  of 
sandstone. 

Suspicion  and  distrust,  the  seeds  sown  by 
captivity,  and  sure  to  bring  forth  fruit  in 
sullen  sins  of  hatred  and  of  fear,  had  been 
too  strong  for  the  nature  of  the  galley-slave 
to  resist  their  influence  and  their  instinct. 
How  could  he  tell  that  she  would  not  sell 
her  secret  for  a  price,  and  only  return  to 
bring  his  capturers  with  her?  How  could 
he  tell  ? 

Alone  there  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 


IK  MAREMMA. 


225 


cowardice  and  mistrust  had  mastered  him. 
He  had  left  his  shelter  and  fled. 

Looking  round,  she  saw  that  the  golden 
lamp,  and  the  golden  diadem,  and  all  the 
toys  of  gold,  were  gone. 

Saturnino,  so  long  the  robber  of  the 
living,  had  now  robbed  the  dead. 


VOL.  I. 


CHAPTEE  X. 

;HEN  late  in  tlie  hot  clay  Miisa 
returned  to  Santa  Tarsilla,  after 
long  dreamless  sleep  of  intense 
fatigue  whicli  had  lasted  many 
hours,  she  was  very  pale,  and  her  face  had  a 
look  of  sullen  pain.  For  the  first  time  in  her 
young  life  slie  had  been  deceived.  Where 
he  had  gone  in  those  ^^dld  swamps  and 
barren  moors  she  knew  not,  but  he  had 
deceived  her — that  was  enoudi  to  know. 

He  had  robbed  the  dead  and  their  gods. 
He  became  abhorrent  to  her. 

Of  the  thanklessness  to  herself  she 
thought  little,  but  of  that  theft  of  the  sacred 
things  she  had  no  forgiveness.  She  had 
never  felt  even  tempted  to  take  them  ;  they 
had  been  hallowed  to  her  ;  they  had  been 


IN  MAIiEMMA.  227 


the  armour,  the  arms,  the  jewels,  the  pos- 
sessions of  the  golden  king  whom  the  first 
ray  of  light  had  set  free  to  ascend  to  the 
stars.  She  ^vould  sooner  have  stolen  the 
chalice  off  the  church  altar,  the  jewels  ofl 
the  saint's  shrine,  than  have  touched  those 
treasures  of  the  Etruscan  dead. 

The  flight  and  the  theft  of  the  man 
she  had  saved,  weighed  on  her  ^vith  a  sense 
of  shame ;  a  burning  indignation  consumed 
her.  She  was  silent  by  nature  ;  she  crushed 
the  pain  in  silence  into  her  heart,  and  said  to 
herself  that  she  w^ould  never  speak  of  that 
traitor — never  tell  any  living  being  of  her 
rescue  of  him  and  of  her  betrayal  by  him — 
never  ;  not  even  Joconda. 

She  came  home  to  the  stone  pier  of 
Santa  Tarsilla  and  fastened  up  the  boat  in 
silence,  and  took  her  way  through  the 
little  town,  steeped  in  the  drowsy  calm  of 
a  sultry  and  late  afternoon. 

Here  and  there  in  an  open  court,  or  upon 
a  stone  bench,  or  under  the  deep  eaves  of  a 
roof  some  figure  was  lying  asleep  ;  that  was 
all.  The  stillness  of  heat  and  of  exhaustion 
had  fallen  on  all  the  place,  and  the  very 
dogs  lay  motionless  and  stupid  in  what  little 
shade  there  was  to  be  found  anywhere. 

u  -2 


2^8  tN  MAREMMA. 


Where  was  he,  the  hunted  man,  in  this 
intolerable  glare  of  day  ? 

She  thought  of  him  fleeing  always  over 
the  brown  burnt  moors,  the  pallid  wastes  of 
sand,  with  the  stolen  gold  that  he  would  be 
able  neither  to  eat  nor  drink,  and  would  not 
dare  to  barter.  Let  the  guards  have  him  if 
they  would,  she  thought ;  he  was  vile. 

Nothing  is  so  cruel  as  j^outh  in  its  scorn  ; 
she  was  full  of  scorn,  and  cruel.  She  would 
have  seen  the  guards  take  him  now,  and 
would  not  have  lifted  her  hand  or  opened 
her  lips.     He  was  a  traitor  and  a  thief. 

Yet  it  hurt  her  to  remember  what  he  had 
done.  The  betrayal  weighed  upon  her  with 
a  heavy  hand.  She  had  given  him  sanctuary, 
and  he  had  robbed  her. 

A  girl  she  knew,  Fulvia,  daughter  of 
Gianno,  was  sitting  on  an  open  door  sunning 
her  rich  sfold  tresses  in  the  old  Venetian 
way. 

'  Where  have  you  been  ?  '  the  girl  called 
to  her.  '  There  was  a  stir  last  night.  Some 
carabineers  came  hunting  for  a  man  that 
had  got  away  off  Gorgona.  They  said  he 
was  Saturnino.  Saturnino  used  to  rule  all 
the  mountains  over  there,  so  my  father  says  ; 
have  you  heard  tell  of  it  ?  * 


IN  MAREMMA.  229 

'  I  have  been  away  on  the  sea,'  said 
Musa,  and  passed  on  ;  the  girl  called  after 
her. 

'  He  is  loose  on  the  country,  so  they  say, 
lie  has  got  away  somewhere ;  I  thought 
you  might  know.  But  you  have  never  a 
word  for  any  one,  you  graceless,  sullen 
thing.' 

Musa  passed  on  along  the  line  of  sun- 
baked stone-faced  houses  with  their  middens 
stinking  in  front  of  them,  and  beyond  the 
middens  the  rotten  seaweeds,  the  salt  and 
clammy  beach. 

She  reached  her  home  in  a  few  moments ; 
the  house  was  closed  as  it  had  been  at 
midnight,  and  was  quite  as  still.  She  was 
not  frightened  at  that,  since  often  Joconda 
went  far  afield  with  the  old  mule,  and  shut 
her  dwelling  closely  in  her  absence.  Perhaps 
Joconda  had  gone  to  seek  for  her,  herself, 
alarmed  at  her  being  away  so  long  upon  the 
water  ; — so  she  thought. 

She  tried  the  house  door ;  the  dog  was 
howling  low  within.  She  could  not  stir  the 
door,  which  fastened  inside  with  ancient 
iron  bolts  and  locks.  She  unslipped  the 
stable  shutter  as  before,  and  by  the  stable 
entered  the  house   as   iu   the   night.     The 


230  IN  MAREMMA. 


mule  was  in  his  place,  miincliing  straw  and 
the  withered  leaves  of  cane. 

She  went  thence  into  the  room  of  Jo- 
conda ;  Leone  did  not  cease  to  howl,  although 
he  saw  her. 

Joconda  still  lay  sleeping. 

'  She  must  be  ill,'  thought  Musa,  with  a 
sudden  pang,  and  the  chillness  of  a  new 
vague  terror  falling  on  her. 

She  sprang  to  the  bedside  where  the  dog 
lay  moaning.  Joconda  had  not  moved  since 
the  night ;  only  on  her  face  there  was 
shining,  instead  of  the  silvery  moonlight,  the 
yellowish,  sickly  glare  of  the  setting  sun. 

She  had  died  in  her  sleep. 

A  terrible  cry  rang  through  the  empty 
house  out  to  the  seashore. 

Musa  was  left  alone. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

!HILSr  in  the  midnight  hours  tlie 
carabineers  had  searched  Santa 
Tarsilla,  and  the  people  had 
spoken  of  Saturuino  and  recalled 
the  old  days  of  his  prowess  and  fame,  this 
long,  toil-worn,  rough,  enduring  life  had 
come  to  an  end ;  decently,  silently,  without 
complaint  and  without  companionship,  as  it 
had  been  spent. 

When  the  neighbours,  apathetic  but  not 
brutal,  though,  being  a  foreign  woman,  they 
had  let  her  live  alone,  came  running  in  at 
the  sound  of  that  terrible  and  desolate  cry, 
they  found  Musa  lying  senseless  by  the  white 
dog,  and  the  blanched  blest  palm  hanging 
above  a  body  already  cold  in  the  stifihess  of 
death. 


232  IN  MAREMMA. 


Joconda  must  have  died  somewhere 
about  midnight,  so  the  apothecary  told  them 
when  he  came.  He  said  that  death  had  come 
from  sheer  old  age ;  the  life  had  ceased,  that 
was  all,  as  an  old  tree  falls,  as  an  old  clock 
refuses  to  move  and  grows  dumb.  There  was 
nothing  strange  in  it.  She  had  been  eighty- 
five  years  old  if  one.  No  one  had  noticed 
her  house  being  closed  all  day,  because  it 
was  so  often  shut  up  in  that  way  when  she 
was  absent. 

When  Musa  regained  consciousness  she 
saw  the  brown,  withered,  labour-bent  body 
lying  still  upon  the  mattress,  as  an  old  broken 
bough  will  lie  on  the  cold  ground. 

'  I  robbed  her  last  night ! '  she  said 
suddenly,  with  a  piteous  self-reproach.  Her 
great  eyes  had  a  grievous  despair  and  shame 
in  them. 

Happily  for  her,  in  the  clamour  of 
tongues  around  her  no  one  heard  or  heeded. 
No  one  thought  of  her,  or  troubled  about  her. 
Joconda  must  be  buried  before  another  day 
broke,  that  was  what  they  thought  of,  and 
talked  of  who  would  have  the  little  she  had 
saved,  and  the  mule.  It  was  a  strong  beast 
and  useful,  although  old ;  they  began  to  ask 
each  other  what  they  would  give  for  it,  and 


JN  MAREMMA.  233 


to  wonder  who  had  the  right  to  see  to  the 
burial  and  pay  for  the  mass.  She  was 
known  to  have  had  a  httle  money  hidden 
somewhere,  but  perhaps  she  had  people  that 
belonged  to  her  over  the  mountains  in  far 
Savoy. 

None  of  them  thought  of  Musa,  who, 
after  that  first  bitter  cry  of  self-reproach 
had  burst  from  lier,  had  sat  mute  and  still 
beside  the  dead,  witli  the  white  dog  between 
her  knees. 

When  they  fetched  the  priest  from 
vespers,  and  he  spoke  to  her,  she  stared  ;  his 
words  went  by  her  without  awaking  in  her 
any  sense  of  them ;  she  was  dumb  as  the 
dog  was ;  her  sorrow  had  neither  tears  nor 
speech,  yet  it  was  very  great. 

Between  Joconda  and  herself  there  had 
been  seldom  tenderness,  but  there  had  been 
always  love.  An  immense  void  had  sud- 
denly yawned  in  lier  patli ;  an  immense 
loss,  that  slie  could  ill  measure,  had  fallen 
on  her.  She  had  not  been  very  happy,  for 
life  at  Santa  TarsiUa  does  not  contain  many 
of  the  elements  of  happiness ;  she  had  always 
vaguely  suffered  from  the  narrowness  and 
stupor  of  it,  from  the  languor  and  disease 
that  were  around  her,  and  her  wliole  nature 


234  IN  MAREMMA. 


and  intelligence  had  always  needed  a  richer 
soil,  a  finer  air.  But  Joconda  had  been 
good  to  her  always.  She  had  been  all  that 
the  girl  had  known  of  motherlike  care  and 
watchfulness  ;  she  had  been  always  just,  and, 
in  her  own  rough  way,  indulgent.  What 
she  knew  of  the  wild,  fierce  strain  that  was 
in  Musa's  veins  had  made  her  very  patient 
of  her  wanderings  on  sea  and  land,  and  of 
her  sudden  passions.  Joconda  had  always 
said  to  herself,  '  it  is  the  blood  of  the 
Mastarna,'  and  so  had  made  excuse. 

It  had  been  a  part  of  her  life  to  see 
Joconda  always  near  her ;  she  had  never  had 
to  take  thouoiit  for  herself :  the  bread  and  the 
broth  were  always  on  the  board  ;  her  linen  in 
summer,  her  lamb's-wool  clothes  in  winter, 
were  always  ready ;  as  she  had  dropped 
asleep  she  had  always  heard  the  voice  of 
Joconda  mutterinof  her  aves  in  that  faith  in 
some  answer  coming  sometime,  from  some- 
where, which  had  never  left  her ;  though  an 
answer  she  never  had  got,  unless  this  death 
which  had  come  to  her  all  unawares  in  the 
stillness  of  the  night  could  be  called  one. 


CHAPTEE  XII. 

^HEY  buried  lier  at  midnight  with 
the  horrible,  selfish  haste  of  the 
country's  habits  and  laws  in  death. 

The  day  before  she  had  been  alive  ;  a 
woman,  shrewd,  brave,  wise,  and  faithful 
in  her  own  rude  way,  boiling  the  soup  in 
her  pot,  cutting  the  canes  for  her  mule, 
looking  at  the  sea  and  the  sun,  giving  good- 
day  to  her  neighbours  from  her  house-door; 
and  now  she  Avas  thrown  into  a  hole  of  the 
earth,  and  the  earth  was  cast  in  upon  her, 
and  she  was  nothing — nothing  ; — less  than 
the  fish  that  died  in  the  nets  on  the  shore, 
for  they  could  be  sold,  and  so  were  of 
value. 

To  the  living,  human  beings  are  cruel 
very  often ;  but  to  the  dead  they  are  always 
brutal,  be  the  dead,  pauper  or  king. 


236  IN  MAREMMA. 


Only  one  torch  burned  for  her ;  old 
Andreino,  the  fisherman,  bore  it.  It  burnt 
steadily  in  the  hot,  heavy  night.  Musa  and 
the  white  dog  stood  by  the  grave.  She 
moved  as  if  she  were  walking  in  her  sleep, 
and  never  a  sound  came  from  her  lips  ;  the 
dog  hung  his  head,  but  was  quiet,  pressing 
close  to  her  side.  Once  he  threw  his  muzzle 
in  the  air  and  howled.  It  was  when  the  first 
shovelful  of  sand  and  clay  fell  on  the  dead 
body. 

The  priest  spoke  some  commonplace 
words  of  consolation  and  of  hope  ;  he  was  a 
simple,  honest  man,  the  son  of  seafaring 
people,  and  born  fifty  years  earlier  in 
Santa  Tarsilla.  Musa  did  not  hear  what  he 
spoke. 

She  went  home  in  unbroken  silence ; 
the  night  was  oppressive,  the  sea  was  still, 
the  heavens  were  covered  with  mist.  There 
was  one  more  grave  on  the  low  sandy  shore  ; 
that  was  all. 

She  went  home  to  the  house,  and  barred 
herself  in,  and  threw  herself  on  the  bed 
where  Joconda  had  died.  No  one  had  the 
heart  to  disturb  her  that  night. 

'  Let  her  sleep  if  she  can,'  said  the  priest 
and  old  Andreino.  But  for  them  the  women 


IN  MAitEMMA.  237 

would  have  dragged  lier  out,  and  made  her 
understand  that  she  was  homeless. 

All  the  day  following  she  kept  her  door, 
and  her  shutters,  barred,  and  would  see 
no  livinj]^  creature.  Towards  evening^  the 
priest  of  the  parisli  came  ;  a  little  bibulous 
and  garrulous,  not  clever  nor  wise,  but 
simple  of  spirit,  and  honest  and  cheerful. 

She  would  not  open  to  him  until  he  said 
that  he  brought  her  a  message  from  the  dead. 
Then  she  let  him  enter,  shutting  the  door 
again  on  the  peering  faces  of  Andreino  and 
some  women  slathered  out  there  in  the  hot 


air. 


The  priest  spoke  kindly  to  her,  a  little 
frightened  at  her  looks  ;  she  was  quite  silent, 
and  her  eyes  were  dry  though  their  lids  were 
swollen  and  very  weary. 

He  told  her  that  the  dead  woman  had- 
left  with  him  the  knowledge  of  the  precise 
spot  where  her  little  treasure  was  hidden, 
and  lie  countec]  tlie  stones  of  the  paved 
floor  from  right  to  left,  and  found  the  one 
beneath  which  was  the  pitcher  containing 
the  coins,  and  he  raised  it  up,  and  took 
the  pitcher  out,  and  read  to  her  the  words 
of  bequest  leaving  to  her  the  money,  the 
furniture,  the  hardware,  the  mule,  all  in  a 


238  IN  MABEMMA. 


word  that  Joconcla  had  possessed,  written 
by  the  scribe  of  Grosseto  on  the  bit  of 
yellow  paper  folded  across  the  jug. 

Musa  listened  and  saw  ;  she  said  nothing  ; 
she  did  not  even  notice  that  on  that  paper 
she  had  herself  no  name  save  the  baptismal 
one  from  the  Egyptian  saint »  She  only 
thought  all  the  while  : 

'  She  was  all  I  had  on  earth  and  she  is 
gone.' 

The  priest  tried  to  speak  a  few  phrases 
in  season  of  counsel,  to  hazard  a  few  ques- 
tions, but  he  made  no  way.  Musa  was 
still  and  mute ;  she  seemed  to  him  like  a 
statue  ;  she  said  only  as  slie  looked  at  the 
pitcher — 

'  This  is  mine  ?  ' 

'  Surely,'  said  the  priest.  'At  least 
there  are  none  that  I  know  of  nearer  of 
kin  to  dispute,  and  even  if  there  were,  the 
bequest,  I  think,  would  hold  good.  I  am 
not  sure,  but  so  I  believe.' 

Musa  lifted  the  pavement  and  replaced 
the  pitcher  with  its  coins  in  its  hole.  Then, 
with  a  sound  that  was  half  sob,  half  sigh, 
she  sat  down  on  the  edij^e  of  the  low  bed 


and  said  to  the  good  man ; 


t>' 


Father,  will  you  go  ?  I  am  best  alone.' 


IN  MAUEMMA.  239 

'But  you  cannot  remain  alone — yon,  a 
girl  so  young ' 

She  did  not  answer.  There  was  some- 
thing in  her  look  and  in  lier  attitude  that 
awed  him :  he  was  used  to  tlie  vehement 
outbursts  and  the  evanescent  passions  of  a 
passionate  but  quickly  consoled  people ; 
lie  did  ■  not  understand  her ;  he  thought 
liastily  that  in  the  morning  he  must  take 
counsel  witli  the  sisters  up  at  the  con- 
vent, and  muttered  his  blessing  feebly  and 
went  away.  She  barred  the  door  behind 
him. 

The  good  man  went  home  and  ate  his 
little  supper  of  small  fish  and  oil,  and  drank  a 
sweet  pale  wine,  and  gossiped  with  his  capel- 
lano,  telling  him  that  the  woman  of  Savoy 
had  after  all  died  worth  a  pretty  penny  ;  a 
whole  jug  full  of  gold  pieces  under  the 
stones  and  left  to  the  girl.  Who  was  the 
girl  ?     What  would  she  do  ? 

The  capellano  in  turn  went  out  and  gos- 
siped with  the  few  dwellers  in  Santa  Tarsilla, 
all  loitering  or  lying  about  by  the  edge  of  the 
sea  this  hot  night,  gasping  for  a  breath  of  air, 
and,  in  default  of  the  air,  gratcftd  to  hear 
some  news. 

They  grumbled  much  one   to  another; 


240  IN  MAitEMMA, 

for  they  were  dissatisfied,  and  their  curiosity 
had  no  food  for  its  appetites. 

'  One  would  have  thought  to  know  who 
that  wench  is  now,'  they  grumbled  to  one 
another,  and  some  of  the  women  said : 

'  She  has  got  no  name.  That  is  odd.  Do 
you  mind  of  the  time  when  Saturnino  was 
taken  up  in  the  hills  yonder  ?  Some  did 
think  then  the  girl  was  Saturnino's  daughter. 
But  Joconda  was  always  so  close.' 

Musa  herself  did  not  notice  that  she  had 
no  name  in  that  little  wrinkled  bit  of  paper 
which  gave  her  the  money  and  the  mule. 

Alone  she  passed  the  long  oppressive 
sultry  hours. 

She  heard  the  voices  of  the  people  outside 
as  the  sun  dropped  and  the  night  came ; 
but  she  would  not  open,  even  to  old  An- 
dreino,  who  rapped  at  the  door  with  a  stick 
and  called  to  her  more  than  once.  She 
lay  awake  all  the  night  long  ;  towards  dawn 
she  fell  into  what  was  rather  stupor  than 
sleep.  In  her  sleep  she  was  always  trying 
to  loosen  the  weight  of  the  sand  and  the 
earth  that  lay  on  the  body  of  her  lost  friend, 
and  to  hft  up  Joconda  from  that  close  and 
cruel  prison.  She  thought  she  could  have 
better  borne  her  loss  if  the  dead  body  had 


IX  MAREMMA.  241 

been  laid  gently  down  upon  those  rocky  biers 
in  the  Etruscan  tomb,  there  to  wait  till  the 
moonlight  should  touch  her  and  take  her  to 
itself,  as  it  had  touched  and  taken  the 
Etruscan  king.  But  hoAv  could  she  ever  rise 
from  that  narrow  bed,  from  that  stifling  sand, 
from  that  ghastly  crowded  place  wdiere  the 
dead  lay  like  mounds  of  putrid  fish,  thrown 
down  and  forsaken  ? 

It  was  late  in  the  day  when  the  child 
awoke  from  this  heavy  troubled  sleep,  which 
left  her  dazed  and  fatigued,  as  she  had  been 
at  night ;  awoke  with  the  burning  sun  on  her 
aching  eyes,  to  hear  impatient  hands  knock- 
ing at  the  shutters  and  the  house  door  : 

'  Art  thou  dead,  too  ?  '  the  shrill  voices 
of  w^omen  were  calling. 

Musa  -^Iiuddered,  and  in  the  scorchinii 
heat  of  the  morning  felt  cold. 

Was  Joconda  in  truth  lost  for  ever.^ 
Had  this  death  which  had  been  so  \o\vf  in 
the  mist  of  a  vague  dread  and  foreboding 
become  a  fact  ?   Would  she  never  come  back  ? 

The  neighbours  knocked  louder  and 
louder.  She  rose,  clothed  herself  and 
opened  to  them. 

'  What  do  you  want  ? '  she  asked  of 
them. 

VOL.  I.  R 


242  IN  MAREMMA. 


Tliey  burst  into  the  room ;  the  ^Y(i  or 
six  women  who  were  all  that  Santa  Tarsilla 
held  in  summer-time,  a  little  sickly  child 
or  two  between  them  ;  old  Andreino  was  a 
little  way  behind. 

'  My  dear  one,'  he  said,  with  a  hand  to 
his  eyes,  *  if  any  love  can  be  of  use  to  you,  I 
and  my  Serafina  too ' 

'  You  can  have  nothing  ready  in  the 
house.  Come  and  break  your  fast  with  us, 
Musa  mine,'  said  the  foremost  woman,  ruth- 
lessly drowning  the  rest  of  his  phrases 
with  her  own  shrill  tones,  to  be  in  turn 
swamped  in  a  neighbour's  fuller  voice  that 

cried : 

'  Xot  a  wink  of  sleep  have  I  had  this 
night,  thinking  of  tlie  good  soul  gone  to  her 
rest ;  neither  have  you  closed  your  cyc^,  my 
dear  ;  that  one  sees  without  asking.  I  have 
brought  a  fresh  egg ' 

'  Addle  your  eggs  !  '  cried  a  third,  elbow- 
in^  her  away  with  scorn  ;  though,  indeed, 
PCTcfs  were  rare  as  roses  on  the  sad  seashore. 

CO 

'Let  the  girl  come  and  take  bit  and  sup 
with  one  who  can  be  as  a  mother  to  iier. 
How  should  she  dwell  alone  and  fare  and 
cook  for  herself  ?  My  man  has  just  brought 
in  some  fine  fresh  crayfish ' 


IN  MAItEMMA.  243 

'  Get  out,'  said  old  Andrei  no  fiercely  ; 
'  who  should  slie  come  to  if  not  to  her  oldest 
friends?  My  Serafina  is  in  bed  with  the 
ague,  or  she  would  have  been  here  all  night. 
My  house  is  Musa's,  and  that  1  promised  long 
ago  to  the  good  dead  soul  sitting  out  by  the 
threshold  there.  I  said  to  Joconda — I 
said ' 

He  continued  to  talk  for  ten  full  minutes, 
but  no  one  heard  a  syllable  more  that  he 
said,  by  reason  of  the  superior  strength  of 
screaming  that  the  w^omen's  lungs  possessed. 

Amidst  the  hubbub  and  outcries  she 
stood  quite  still ;  she  scarcely  seemed  even 
to  see  that  the  people  were  there. 

When  they  found  her  silence  continue  so 
long,  and  that  neither  by  look  nor  word  was 
she  moved  to  respond  to  their  hospitable  and 
fond  entreaties,  they  began  to  grow  angry  ; 
and  one  of  them  said  tartly  and  hotly : 

'  We  come  in  charity  and  good  will,  but 
we  may  go  in  wrath.  Musa,  there  is  money 
here,  and  there  are  debts  that  should  be  paid 
with  it.' 

'  Debts  ! ' 

It  was  the  hrst  word  she  spoke.  She 
had  heard  of  debt ;  she  knew  that  it  was  a 
great  calamity.    Joconda  had  always  spoken 

K  2 


244  IN  MAREMMA. 


of  it  as  a  great  shame ;  she  liad  seen  the 
man  of  the  law  gomg  into  the  wretched 
cabins  of  the  neighbours  more  than  once, 
and  seizing  and  selhng  the  very  chattels  of 
the  cupboard,  the  very  mattress  of  the  bed  ; 
and  at  such  a  time  Joconda  had  always 
said — '  they  have  burned  their  candle  at 
both  ends ;  they  have  eaten  their  Paschal 
lamb  at  Ognissanti ;  poor  fools,  poor  knaves ! ' 

She  knew  that  debt  had  no  more  clung 
about  Joconda's  honest  name  than  ill-got 
gold  had  clunor  about  her  honest  fino^ers. 

'  You  have  got  all  the  money  she  left,' 
said  one.  '  You  are  a  brave  and  honest  girl, 
Maria  Penitente ;  you  will  pay  me  that 
quintale  of  hay  for  the  mule ' 

'  And  my  little  bill  for  the  coffee  and 
the  beans  and  the  cheese,'  said  another,  who 
kept  the  small  pizzicheria  shop  by  the 
church.  '  It  has  run  and  run,  goodness 
can  tell  how  long,  but  I  was  never  one 
to  press ;  and  we  all  knew  that  the  old 
soul  was  safe  and  warm  though  she  was 
niggard.' 

'  And  there  are  three  pairs  of  boots 
owing  to  my  husband,'  said  the  cobbler's 
wife,  who  had  come  on  his  errand,  because 
he   was    such   a   poor    weak   white-livered 


IN  MAHjEMMA.  245 

thing  himself;  '  Joconda  wore  out  a  many- 
boots  ;  tramp,  tramp,  trot,  trot,  for  ever  as 
she  did ;  and  too  proud-stomached  ever  to 
go  a  seal z a ' 

'  There  is  a  trifle  of  oil,  a  quarter-barrel ; 
I  let  her  have  it  last  Night  of  the  Kings  as  I 
had  fetched  it  in  from  the  country,  thinking 
it  only  neighbourliness,'  said  a  fourth,  who 
had  a  year-old  baby  at  her  breast. 

'And  there  were  little  sums  I  lent,  on 
and  off,  not  much  ;  she  put  her  cross  for 
them  ;  she  was  a  lone  creature ;  one  could 
not  be  hard.  I  have  got  them  all  fair  writ 
out,  and  her  cross  is  at  home  in  the  book,* 
said  the  woman  who  hved  next  door,  whose 
husband  owned  three  of  the  fishing-smacks, 
and  was  a  strozzino  in  a  little  hungry  way, 
i.e.  a  usurer,  who  lent  out  small  sums  at 
large  interest,  and  kept  his  gains  in  a  deep 
well  in  the  court  of  his  old  house,  and  could 
never  sleep  at  night  for  thinking  of  them, 
and  so  was  in  a  fair  way  to  grace  a  mad- 
house before  long :  a  man  whom  Santa  Tar- 
silla  cursed  as  it  never  had  cursed  Saturnino. 

Musa  was  still  and  mute ;  she  heard 
them ;  she  stood  erect  in  the  centre  of  the 
floor  where  the  sunlicjht  made  a  f]^olden 
glory  all  about  her. 


246  IN  MAREMMA. 


Old  Andreino  sidled  through  the  voci- 
ferating knot  of  women,  and  came  close  to 
her  and  put  his  mouth  to  her  ear. 

'  Never  listen  to  them ;  her  debts  were 
her  own  if  she  had  any ;  let  them  take  their 
scores  to  her  grave.  Come  home  with  me, 
my  dear,  and  bring  the  pitcher  with  you  and 
we  will  count  it  all  out  fair  and  straight,  and 
think  what  best  to  do  with  it ;  you  might 
put  it  in  my  son's  wine  shop,  and  he  would 
give  you  good  profit  out  of  it,  and  so ' 

Musa  shook  him  off;  she  stood  like 
one  slowly  awaking  out  of  a  hideous  dream  ; 
she  looked  from  his  face  to  the  faces  of  the 
women,  and  a  darkness  of  scorn  and  of  rage 
gathered  over  her  own. 

'  You  all  lie !  You  all  lie  1 '  she  said, 
sternly.  '  She  never  OAved  man  or  woman  a 
handful  of  leaves,  or  a  hank  of  wool,  or  a 
copper  coin  in  all  the  days  of  her  life. 
Never,  never !  She  robbed  herself  to  give 
to  me.  She  robbed  no  other.  Oh  tongues 
false  and  accursed !  -have  you  no  fear  when 
you  lie  of  the  dead  ?  ' 

For  a  moment  they  were  silenced  before 
the  intensity  of  scorn,  the  solemnity  of 
rebuke.  For  a  moment  their  falsehood 
and  their  greed  shrivelled  up  as  dry  leaves 


IN  MAREMMA,  247 

shrivel  before  a  flame.  But  only  for  a 
moment,  for  they  had  so  lied  one  to  another 
that  their  lie  almost  seemed  a  truth  to  them  ; 
almost  they  had  persuaded  even  themselves 
that  they  had  a  right  to  the  gold  of  tlie 
woman  of  Savoy. 

'  Would  we  come  with  false  claims  ? '  they 
shrieked  aloud  in  a  chorus  of  wounded 
honour,  and  cried  one  against  another,  '  This 
is  what  comes  of  too  great  goodness  !  We 
trusted  a  foreign  woman,  and  we  left  her 
alone  because  she  was  old,  and  then,  Avheu 
her  end  comes,  we  are  despoiled  !  This  is 
our  reward  !  This  is  the  justice  we  get  from 
aliens ! ' 

'  Be  quiet !  be  quiet !  my  dear  friends — 
my  good  sweet  neighbours  I '  murmured  the 
old  man,  running  from  one  to  another,  and 
thinkin":  to  himself, '  Whether  she  owed  them 
or  not,  not  a  stiver  of  that  good  money  shall 
go  in  the  maw  of  these  pigs.  Xo,  no ;  my 
grandson  and  I  will  do  justice  by  her  ;  and 
if  she  love  not  the  wineshop  we  might  buy 
a  share  in  a  boat,  or  in  the  salt-working,  or 
purchase  a  pineto  and  clear  it ' 

For  as  yet  he  did  not  know  how  mucli 
was  in  the  pitcher  or  not ;  but  lie  was  quite 
sure  the  amount  must  be  large. 


248  IK  MAREMMA. 


The  women  began  to  shriek  more  and 
more  loudly ;  they  screamed  one  against  the 
other.  Conscious  that  proofs  were  wanting 
they  made  up  for  lack  of  evidence  with 
storm  of  noise ;  they  howled  aloud  that 
they  were  honest  as  the  day,  and  were 
robbed,    they     reviled    the    dead    in    her 


grave. 


'  Proof !  She  wants  proof ! '  they  yelled. 
'  If  we  have  no  proof,  or  but  little,  it  is  be- 
cause we  Avere  too  good.  We  trusted  an  old 
lone  creature.  We  let  her  take  our  sub- 
stance and  never  asked  her  a  quittance.  We 
were  too  good,  too  simple,  too  long-suffering ; 
and  now  we  are  cheated  at  last.' 

Musa  stood  and  looked  at  them  ;  her 
face  was  pale  and  cold  as  marble,  only  in  her 
eyes  a  passion  of  hatred  and  of  scorn  shone 
as  the  lightnings  would  shine  at  night  in  the 
purple  skies  of  the  summer. 

She  bore  in  silence  for  a  while  that  hiss- 
ing steam  of  angry  breath,  that  harsh  shrill 
uproar  of  abusive  voices,  their  menacing 
hands  that  dashed  about  her  in  the  air,  their 
glittering  eyes,  that  seemed  to  dart  at  her 
like  snakes'  tongues  in  the  sunrays.  Then, 
all  of  a  sudden,  she  stooped,  lifted  the 
loosened  stone,  and  took  up  the  pitcher  from 


IN  MAREMMA,  249 

the  hole.  She  raised  it  above  lier  head  one 
instant,  high  above  her  head  and  their  reach, 
as  she  had  held  a  pitcher  of  water  a  thou- 
sand times  if  one. 

'  You  are  false  and  accursed,'  she  said  to 
them,  and  her  voice  was  deep  and  clear,  and 
smote  them  as  if  it  were  a  sword.  '  You  are 
false  and  accursed ;  and  she  owed  no  man 
or  woman  a  thread  in  her  garments,  a  crust 
in  her  mouth.  She  was  honest  and  faithful 
and  true,  and  cheated  not  a  dog  nor  a  mide 
of  his  ris^hts.  But  all  she  has  left — take  ! 
Take  and  scramble  for  it  like  the  thieves  you 
are  ;  and  may  the  bread  and  the  wine  tliat 
you  buy  with  it  blister  your  moutlis  and 
consume  your  bodies.' 

Then  with  a  single  gesture  of  magnificent 
rage  she  dashed  the  pitcher  down  througli 
the  sunlight  on  to  the  floor  amidst  them  ;  it 
fell  shattered  in  a  score  of  pieces  on  the 
stones,  and  the  coins  rolled  hitlier  and  thither, 
and  their  metal  gleamed  in  the  sunlight. 
The  women  threw  themselves  on  them.  Tlie 
old  man  screamed. 

Musa  called  Leone  to  her  side,  took  the 
linen,  and  the  summer  and  winter  clotliing 
that  belonged  to  her,  took  the  lute  and  the 
distaff,  and  the  trifles  that  were   her  own, 


250  IN  MAREMMA. 


passed  into  tlie  adjacent  cliamber  where  the 
mule  was  stabled,  bridled  him  and  led  him 
out  into  the  open  air,  first  having  bound 
upon  his  back  her  own  mattress,  with  its 
hempen  sheeting  and  its  coarse  but  w^arm 
blankets. 

The  women  were  yelling  and  quarrelling 
over  the  scattered  coin ;  the  old  man  was 
trying  to  snatch  his  share,  and  was  buffeted 
and  beaten  between  them.  In  their  haste 
and  their  greed  and  their  struggle  they  did 
not  notice  or  know  what  she  did. 

Without  looking  back  once  she  passed 
out  of  the  old  home  of  her  childhood,  and 
went  out  between  the  blocks  of  stone  and 
the  stunted  aloes,  leading  the  mule  and 
followed  by  the  dog. 

She  went  straight  across  the  tufa  mounds, 
and  the  narrow  paths  crossing  the  reedy, 
moist  soil,  the  rank  grass  lands,  and  the 
wild  undergrowth  that  stretched  around 
Santa  Tarsilla,  and  walked  slowly  on  and  on, 
on  and  on,  for  eight  miles,  plunging  into  the 
deep  woodland  and  entering  the  vast  virgin 
meadows,  until  she  came  within  sight  of  those 
cliffs  of  sandstone,  where  the  tombs  of  the 
Tyrrhenes  were  hidden  away  behind  the  fence 
of  thorny  ruscus  and  the  dense  walls  of  bay. 


IX  MAREMMA.  251 

'  Tliey  will  not  be  angered  against  me, 
nor  will  tliey  speak  ill  of  her,'  she  thought ; 
and  led  the  mule  straight  onward  to  the 
place  she  loved,  where  the  tall  leafy  cork- 
trees rose  up  from  the  thickets,  and  the 
white-flowered  cistus-bushes,  and  the  haw- 
thorns and  the  myrtles,  and  the  yellow- 
blossomins^  Christ 's-thorn  covered  the  burial- 
place  of  the  Etruscan  dead. 

Intense  heat  still  brooded  over  all  the 
land,  but  she  was  used  to  it ;  it  did  not 
harm  her. 

For  miles  around  there  was  nothing 
visible  ;  not  a  sail  in  the  distant  sea,  not  a 
bird  in  the  air,  not  a  boar  in  the  brakes,  not 
a  snake  in  the  sand. 

She  led  the  old  mule,  and  paced  beside 
him  ;  her  heart  was  like  a  stone,  her  feet  felt 
like  lead  ;  all  at  once  she  realised  all  that 
the  faithful,  kindly,  fostering  love  of  Joconda 
had  been  to  her,  and  knew  that  it  was  gone 
from  her  for  ever. 

She  went  on  with  the  animal  through  the 
hot  white  light,  their  shadows  lying  black 
behind  them  on  the  scorched  grass  and  the 
grey  sand.  An  immense  sorrow  had  en- 
tered into  her,  and  an  immense  regret.  She 
thought — '  I  was  never  thankful ! ' 


252  iiV  MARUMMA. 


She  had  not  been  thankful  because  she 
had  not  understood.  As  the  child  does  not 
comprehend  his  cost  to  the  mother  who  bore 
the  burden  of  him,  so  she  had  never  under- 
stood what  she  owed  to  the  woman  who  had 
sheltered  her  nameless  life. 

She  had  taken  all  that  was  about  her,  as 
children  do,  unthinkingly ;  they  do  not  ask 
why  the  sun  shines,  why  the  bread  is  there, 
why  the  roof  is  between  their  heads  and  the 
Avinter  storm ;  these  things  are  so ;  they 
accept  them  and  do  not  question  nor  won- 
der. She  had  not  been  thankless ;  she  had 
only  been  a  child.  ISTow  she  was  a  child  no 
more.  She  had  looked  on  death,  and  it  had 
left  her  desolate. 

She  had  made  her  mind  up  to  go  and 
dwell  with  those  whom  she  had  called  her 
own  people,  in  the  twilight  of  the  earth, 
underneath  the  grass  and  canes.  She  was 
sure  that  they  would  not  repulse  her. 

She  preferred  their  mute  mercy  to  the 
clamouring  greed  of  the  living.  What  ap- 
palled her  was,  not  that  she  was  penniless, 
but  that  she  was  alone. 

She  went  across  the  moor  in  the  strong 
unchanging  sunlight  that,  as  the  day  grew 
apace,  ceased  to  have  even  the  relief  of  any 


IN  MARE  MM  A.  253 


shade  from  leaf  or  blade  of  reed.  She  met 
no  livimr  thinor.  She  uncovered  the  entrance 
of  the  tomb  and  descended  the  steps  into  it ; 
and  the  mule,  used  to  the  stone  stairs  that 
led  to  his  own  stable,  was  with  little  trouble 
induced  to  follow.  She  unloaded  the  thin<xs 
off  his  back  and  laid  them  down  ;  she  took 
her  sickle  and  went  up  into  the  air  and  cut 
thistles  and  dry  grass  for  him,  and  filled  a 
stoup  of  water  at  the  half-dried  pool,  and 
stabled  him  there  in  as  much  comfort  as  she 
could.  Then  she  slathered  sticks  tosrether, 
and  lit  a  fire  on  the  stones  of  the  entrance- 
place,  and  set  a  little  soup-pot  on  to  boil 
with  some  herbs  and  beans  and  fish  in  it 
that  she  had  brought,  with  some  rough  bread, 
to  make  her  midday  meal. 

The  food  seemed  to  choke  her,  but  slie 
ate,  being  young  and  in  health,  so  tliat 
hunger  came  to  her  despite  her  sorrow. 

When  she  had  eaten  she  laid  her  bed- 
clothes on  the  stone  couch  that  had  served 
for  the  last  sleep  of  the  Etruscan  Lucumo,  and 
sat  down  in  the  soft  grey  gloom  of  tlie  twiht 
place,  sheltered  from  the  glare  and  scorch 
of  day,  and  said  to  lierself,  '  my  home  is 
here.' 

Santa  Tarsilla  was  no  more  her  home. 


254  IN  MAREMMA. 


It  was  full  of  liars  and  of  thieves.  She  ab- 
horred it.  Though  its  sands  were  to  become 
full  of  silver  ore,  as  the  soil  of  Populonia 
once  had  been,  she  said  to  herself  that 
never  again  should  her  feet  tread  them. 

Let  them  keep  the  money  and  kill  each 
other  fighting  over  it ! 

She  almost  smiled  as  she  sat  there  in  the 
gloom  and  thought  of  old  Andreino  beaten  to 
and  fro  by  the  struggling  women,  and  clutch- 
ing at  the  coins  and  shrieking  in  his  feeble 
treble. 

'  One  would  think  that  gold  were  God  ! ' 
she  thought ;  remembering  how  but  three 
days  before  the  galley-slave  had  robbed  her : 
robbed  the  tomb  that  was  sacred,  the  dead 
that  were  defenceless. 

The  terror  of  her  own  lonely  and  hap- 
less fate  looked  at  her  from  the  awful  eyes 
of  the  sculptured  Chimsera  and  the  frowning 
brows  of  the  painted  Typhon  ;  yet  so  con- 
soled was  she  to  be  in  tliis  silent  sanctuary 
that  she  began  to  think  of  her  future  main- 
tenance and  her  future  liberty  here  with  a 
L>ense  of  deUverance  rather  than  of  danger. 
There  would  indeed,  she  knew,  be  no  means 
of  gaining  any  hvelihood  here.  She  could 
spin  well,  but  so  could  every  one  else  in  the 


IN  MAREMMA.  255 


province,  and  she  could  make  nets  with  skill, 
but  so  could  every  fisherman  on  tlie  sea- 
board :  and  there  was  nothing  beyond  these 
to  do. 

Work  is  the  political  economist's  one 
advice  and  panacea  ;  but  there  are  many 
places  in  the  world  where  it  is  not  possible 
to  work,  and  the  Maremma  in  summer-time  is 
one  of  them.  There  is  nothing  to  labour 
at ;  all  has  been  already  done  by  the  army  of 
labourers  that  stream  down  from  the  moun- 
tains. The  few  tliat  are  left  lie  in  the  sun 
and  think  themselves  blessed  if  they  do  not 
sicken  or  starve  ;  many  do  both. 

But  of  sickness  she  had  no  fear,  and  she 
was  not  even  afraid  of  famine. 

She  thouo'ht  if  she  could  manage  to  make 
her  bread  from  the  saggina^  or  wild  oats,  that 
grew  all  around  she  could  live  here  well 
enough.  She  scarcely,  indeed,  took  more 
tliought  of  what  might  be  her  bodily  priva- 
tion than  the  nit^jhtiuo^ales  comino-  back, 
whilst  the  days  are  still  short  and  the  wood- 
lands still  brown  with  their  first  budding, 
take  heed  of  the  wild  weather  that  may  come 
to  still  their  sciig  and  stay  their  courting. 

She  had  never  known  any  kind  of  in- 
dulgence   or  fastidious   a])petite.      She  had 


256  IN  MAREMMA. 


always  eaten  sparingly  of  the  simplest  food  ; 
the  idea  that  she  might  have  only  a  bit  of 
oaten  bread  for  weeks  together  did  not 
frighten  her.  She  w^as  very  w^ell  aware  that 
she  would  liave  to  depend  on  what  her  ow^n 
hands  could  gather. 

The  old  mule  was  Ivino-  down  on  the 
litter  of  dry  grasses  ;  the  dog  was  asleep,  for 
he  w^as  old  too  and  soon  drowsy  ;  the  twihght 
of  the  tomb  was  like  the  soft  shadow^s 
that  herald  the  dawn ;  the  painted  shapes 
upon  the  walls  played  on  their  pipes,  and 
wreathed  their  garlands,  and  danced  in  the 
border  of  lotus  flower ;  outside,  the  burninir 
day  was  fierce  and  white,  the  animal  life  of 
the  moors  was  all  hidden  and  still,  there  was 
only  the  rustle  of  the  snake  through  the  tall 
stalks  of  the  distaff-canes,  the  hoot  of  the 
cicala  swino-ins^  high  on  the  caroba^  bou<?hs  : 
the  sound  of  the  insects'  odd  singing  came 
faintly  into  the  stillness  of  the  tombs. 

'  If  only  she  were  here !  '  thought  Musa. 

Who  had  been  those  vanished  people  who 
had  known  so  well  how  to  cherish  their  dead 
and  put  them  gently  away  in  their  painted 
chambers  with  the  toys  of  their  infancy,  or 
the    weapons    of    their    manhood,    or    the 

*  Ceratonia  siliqua. 


ii^  MAHJ^MMA.  267 


jewels  of  their  virginal  or  matronly  pride, 
tenderly  placed  beside  them  ?  Who  had 
tliey  been,  those  forgotten  peoples,  who 
robbed  death  of  half  its  terrors,  and  laid  the 
dog  beside  his  master,  the  toy  beside  the 
child,  in  cool,  fresh,  sacred  chambers  where 
the  dead  seemed  not  dead  but  waiting? 

Ah  !  why  w^as  she  not  here ! — she,  who 
was  thrust  into  that  hole  in  the  sand,  in  that 
box  of  pitch-pine,  thrust  out  of  life  with 
unseemly  haste,  with  a  brutal  eagerness  to  be 
rid  of  her  and  forget  that  ever  she  had  been. 

Musa  could  not  have  reasoned  out  the 
thing  she  felt ;  but  the  ghastly  rites,  the  hide- 
ous selfishness,  the  vulgar  hurrying  cruelty, 
that  mark  out  the  Christian  treatment  of  the 
dead  weighed  on  her  with  their  harshness 
and  their  horror  as  she  sat  in  these  graves  of 
the  Etruscans — made  ere  men  had  heard  of 
Christ. 

Then  for  the  first  time  a  few  great  tears 
rushed  into  her  eyes  and  she  Avept  bitterly, 
and,  thus  weeping,  fell  at  the  last  asleep,  in  a 
merciful  sleep  that  lasted  through  several 
hours,  while  the  hot  day  throbbed  itself  away 
without,  and  the  rays  of  the  sun  beat  in 
vain  upon  her  resting-place  and  could  not 
enter. 

VOL.  I.  8 


258  IN  MAltEMMA. 

When  she  awoke  it  was  dark ;  night- 
herons,  early  come  from  the  north  on  their 
voyage  to  Egypt,  flying  over  the  marshes 
sent  forth  their  loud  harsh  croak.  She 
mounted  the  stairs  and  looked  upward,  and 
guessed  the  hour  by  the  place  of  the  evening 
star,  and  the  look  of  the  heavens.  She  w^ent 
down  again  and  ate  a  little  and  drank  some 
water,  fed  the  dog  and  the  mule,  shut  them 
both  in  the  chamber,  and  w^ent  out  into  the 
open  air. 

She  had  an  errand  to  do,  with  which,  un- 
done, it  seemed  to  her  she  could  not  sleep.  A 
strange  fancy  had  come  to  her,  and  the  fancy 
assumed  the  shape  of  duty  to  her ;  of  a  duty 
of  gratitude  so  imperative  that  it  would  have 
been  a  guilt  in  her  sight  to  evade  its  execu- 
tion. 

The  uneducated  are  perhaps  unjustly 
judged  sometimes.  To  the  ignorant  both 
right  and  wrong  are  only  instincts  ;  when  one 
remembers  their  piteous  and  innocent  con- 
fusion of  ideas,  the  twilight  of  dim  compre- 
hension in  which  they  dwell,  one  feels  that 
oftentimes  the  laws  of  cultured  men  are  too 
hard  on  them,  and  that,  in  a  better  sense  than 
that  of  injustice  and  reproach,  there  ought 
indeed  to  be  two  laws  for  rich  and  poor. 


IX  MAREMMA.  259 


Musa  walked  through  the  still  sultiy  night. 

There  was  a  haze  of  heat  over  the  heavens 
that  obscured  the  stars,  and  there  was  no 
moon.  • 

When  she  reached  the  entrance  of  Santa 
Tarsilla  it  was  midniglit  and  quite  dark. 
There  were  no  lights  in  any  of  the  houses ; 
far  down  the  coast  there  was  the  gleam  of 
the  pharos  of  Orbetello  :  all  else  on  sea  and 
earth  was  in  impenetrable  gloom. 

She,  who  had  known  the  ways  of  the 
place  from  infancy,  made  no  error  in  her 
going.  She  took  her  path  straight  to  that 
field  of  death  where  they  had  laid  Joconda. 

The  walls  of  the  cemetery  were  low  and 
white ;  one  of  them  was  washed  by  the  sea. 
Her  eyes,  grown  accustomed  to  the  blackness 
of  the  moonless  air,  discerned  the  outline  of 
the  walls,  and  over  tlie  inland  one,  nearest  to 
her,  she  leaped  with  the  agility  of  her  strong 
youtli,  and  slowly  took  her  road  over  the 
rough  clods  and  the  rougli  grass  of  the 
enclosure. 

Then  she  lit  a  lantern  she  had  brouglit 
with  her,  and  by  its  light  found  her  way  to 
the  freshest  grave  that  was  there,  hard  by  the 
sea  wall. 

Tlie  cartli  lay  all  broken  up  into  liard 
s  2 


260  IN  MAttEMMA. 

clods  and  heavy  lumps  as  the  earth,  when 
sun-baked  by  a  scorcliing  midsummer,  al- 
ways lies,  beat  it  as  spade  and  hoe  may. 
She  stood  by  it,  looking  down  on  it  timidly 
and  tenderly  with  yearning  eyes  awhile ; 
then  she  lifted  her  lantern  and  Avent  to  the 
little  white-washed  shed  which  served  as  a 
funeral  chapel. 

There  was  a  toolhouse  close  by  it,  the 
door  of  which  was  never  shut ;  she  went 
in  and  got  a  pickaxe  and  other  tools  and 
returned  with  them  to  the  grave  of  Joconda. 

She  began  to  loosen  the  earth  ;  that  brutal 
earth  which  lay  so  heavily  on  the  breast  of  her 
best  friend. 

Southward  on  the  sea  there  was  now 
a  crowd  of  lights  burning  yellow  against 
the  deep  blue  of  the  summer  night ;  the 
men  of  the  Orbetellano  were  spearing  the 
fish  frightened  and  blinded  by  the  blaze  of 
lanterns.  But  there  was  no  sound  in  all  the 
place  except  the  ripple  of  the  water  against 
the  low  mortared  wall.  Once  a  dog,  far 
away  in  the  fields,  barked. 

She  laboured  on  undisturbed. 

The  earth  loosened  when  so  dry  does  not 
readily  adhere  together  again,  and  the  clods 
were  all  easy  to  remove.     In  an  hour's  time 


IN  MAEEMMA.  261 


she  had  uncovered  the  rough  deal  box  that 
they  had  called  Joconda's  cofTiii. 

She  took  breath  and  leaned  against  the 
wall  and  gazed  down  into  the  chasm.  Before 
womanhood  had  fully  opened  for  ]ier  she 
knew  the  doom  that  comes  with  age.  She 
lived  with  the  lost  dead  instead  of  with  the 
living. 

A  deep-toned  clock  in  the  house  nearest 
struck  faintly  the  seventh  hour ;  the  old  way 
of  counting  time  still  prevails  in  Maremma. 
It  was,  as  we  say,  one  hoiu'  after  mid- 
night. The  fear  of  interruption  gave  her 
fresh  strength  and  energy.  She  knew  that 
to  raise  the  coffin  would  be  more  difficult 
than  to  uncover  it ;  but  she  descended  into 
the  pit,  tied  cords  about  it,  and,  after  anotlier 
Jiour's  hard  and  patient  toil,  raised  it  up  on 
to  the  ground  above. 

Then  she  trembled ;  the  great  dews 
rolled  off  her  forehead ;  in  the  hot  night  she 
grew  cold. 

The  only  human  soul  that  had  ever 
loved  her  was  there  at  her  feet,  helpless  and 
senseless  as  the  clods  of  clay — no  more  a 
luunan  creature,  but  a  thing  thrust  out  of 
sight  and  forgotten  of  all. 

She  shivered  as  she  looked  on  it ;  then 


262  7.Y  JfAEEM.^fA. 

she  took  up  her  spade  and  shovelled  in  the 
earth ;  dry  as  it  had  been,  and  loose,  she 
knew  that  in  the  morning  it  would  bear 
no  sign  of  disturbance  to  careless  eyes,  and 
that  most  likely  there  would  not  be  even  a 
careless  glance  cast  on  that  waste  corner  by 
the  old  sea  wall. 

When  it  was  all  filled  in,  the  earth  was 
lower  than  it  had  been,  but  this  would 
seem  no  more  than  the  natural  in-sinking^  of 
the  soil.  She  rested  once  again,  a  moment, 
from  her  labour,  and  drew  breath  again  for 
her  heaviest  trial  of  strength,  the  lifting  of 
the  coffin  over  the  wall  and  into  the  boat 
beneath.  She  had  great  strength  in  her 
symmetrical  limbs ;  she  was  shaped  as  nobly 
as  a  Greek  statue,  and  in  her  beautiful  arms, 
her  straight  limbs,  her  superb  hips,  there  was 
no  less  force  than  grace.  From  her  child- 
hood upward  the  sea  had  bathed,  the  wind 
had  fed,  the  sweetness  of  sound  sleep  and 
the  tonic  of  athletic  exercise  had  nourished 
her.  Beside  the  sun-starved,  room-cooped 
prisoners  of  the  factory  and  of  the  school- 
room she  would  have  been  as  Atalanta  beside 
the  dried  and  shrivelled  atomy  of  a  specimen - 
jar.  With  all  her  strength  now  she  raised 
the  cofiin   by   the   cords   she  had   knotted 


IN  MABEMMA.  2G.'3 


about  it,  dragged  it  up  on  to  the  wall  beside 
lier,  which  was  of  breadth  enough  to  afford 
safe  footing,  and  thence  by  degrees  lowered 
it  into  the  old  wooden  craft,  half  boat,  half 
tub,  beloDging  to  Andreino  in  which  she  had 
spent  her  happiest  hours. 

She  descended  into  the  punt,  laid  the 
coffin  reverently  at  her  feet,  loosened  the 
chain  from  the  staple,  and,  taking  up  her 
oars,  bent  over  them  and  began  to  row 
back  to  the  place  on  the  sea-shore  where  she 
had  rescued  the  galley-slave  Mastarna. 

She  was  drenched  with  the  sweat  of 
exertion,  she  was  cold  with  a  nameless 
terror,  she  was  aching  in  every  muscle  with 
the  strain  of  her  over-wrought  labour.  But 
she  was  content.  She  had  done  her  duty  as 
she  saw  it.  When  her  eyes  rested  on  the 
deal  surface  of  the  oblong  thing  at  her  feet, 
she  thought  tenderly, 

'  Surely  she  knows  ;  surely  she  is  glad  I 
take  her  to  them  ?  " 

It  had  seemed  to  her  so  brutal,  so  vile, 
so  thankless  to  thrust  the  dead,  only  because 
it  icas  dead,  into  the  earth,  in  a  waste  hole 
of  ground,  and  leave  it  alone  to  the  growth 
of  the  rank  grass  and  the  thistle,  to  the  com- 
panionship of  the  newt  and  the  worm. 


264  IN  MABEMMA, 

The  sea  was  perfectly  placid ;  the  air 
was  still  without  wind ;  the  moon  had  now 
risen,  and  seemed  like  a  friend  in  the  sky. 
In  Santa  Tarsilla  no  one  had  awakened  ;  all 
was  still.  She  was  safe,  and  her  errand  was 
done. 

When  at  lengtli  the  boat  reached  the 
place  on  the  sands  where  the  low  myrtles 
and  rosemary  grew  well-nigh  to  the  edge  of 
the  sea — the  place  where  Saturnino  had  sat 
on  the  sand  and  cursed  mankind  and  his 
own  soul — the  lovely  vermilion  hue  of 
early  daybreak  in  the  Maremma  was  slowly 
spreadhig  over  the  heavens. 

She  sprang  into  the  water,  and  with 
infinite  tenderness  and  solemn  care  drew  the 
boat  with  its  freight  upon  the  shore,  amidst 
the  sea-stocks  and  the  samphire. 

Then  she  dragged  her  weary  feet  over 
the  three  miles  of  heath  that  lay  between 
her  and  the  Etruscan  tomb.  She  went  down 
into  the  grave,  stirred  the  old  mule  from  his 
slumber,  and  placed  his  pack-saddle  on  his 
back  ;  followed  by  Leone,  she  led  him  by 
the  bridle  to  the  shore.  She  was  now  so 
fatigued  that  her  limbs  shook  under  her,  and 
her  head  swam.     But  she  pursued  her  way. 

Eeaching   the   edge   of  the   waves,  she 


IX  MAEEMMA.  206 

drew  out  the  coffin  from  its  shelter  beneath 
the  shrubs,  raised  it  with  great  difficulty  on 
to  the  pack-saddle  and  fastened  it  there  ; 
then  once  more,  with  her  hand  on  the 
mule's  bridle,  and  with  the  dog  beside  her 
silent  and  subdued,  she  went  back,  now 
not  alone,  to  the  grave  of  the  kings. 

As  she  went — the  mule  patiently  bearing 
the  burden  of  the  dead  mistress  who  had  fed 
and  tended  him  for  twenty  years,  rendering 
his  owner  this  last  sernce  ere  he,  too, 
should  fall  away  into  the  uselessness  of  age, 
into  the  darkness  of  death — Musa  looked  back 
once  at  the  open  sea. 

The  rose  of  dawn  was  all  above  her 
head,  the  waters  lay  wide  and  peaceful  in 
the  sweet  mysterious  light. 

Her  heart  was  full. 

^  Surely  she  must  be  glad,'  she  thought ; 
'she  Avill  be  with  us,  and  she  will  know 
that  I  did  not  forget.' 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

I  HE  removal  of  Joconda's  body  from 
its  grave  was  never  noticed  by 
the  sacristan  of  Santa  Tarsilla,  or 
by  any  one  of  lier  neighbours. 
No  one  ever  went  nigh  that  rough  space  of 
ground  under  the  sea  wall.  They  had  done 
with  her  when  they  had  buried  her.  Wlien 
the  torch  of  Andreino  had  flared  itself  out, 
the  last  rite  of  remembrance  had  been  finished 
for  ever. 

Santa  Tarsilla  was  like  the  greater 
world  that  lay  around  outside  its  desolate 
plains  and  swamps. 

'  That  girl  is  a  base  one,'  said  the  neigh- 
bours ;  '  never  so  much  as  a  wooden  cross 
has  she  set  above  the  grave,  or  a  two-soldo 
print  of  a  saint  has  she  hung  above  it ! ' 


IX  MAHEMMA.  207 


They  knew  she  had  gone  to  live  away 
on  tlie  moors  ;  where,  tliey  were  not  sure  ; 
it  was  a  matter  of  indifTerence.  They  had 
got  the  money,  and  had  torn  each  otlier 
well-nigh  to  pieces  over  it ;  they  were 
readier  to  forget  her  than  to  recall  her.  If 
she  had  come  back  she  midit  have  de- 
manded  some  clear  account  of  their  alleged 
claims,  and  to  satisfy  her  would  have  been 
awkward.  The  landlord,  or  rather  his 
steward,  for  the  landlord  was  a  gay  noble, 
far  away,  came  and  looked  about  the 
house,  and  affirmed  that  he  had  a  title  to  a 
3'ear's  rental,  and  sold  the  sticks  of  fiirni- 
tm-e,  and  the  pots  and  pans,  the  mattress 
on  which  Joconda  had  lain  every  night  till 
she  had  slept  on  it  her  last  sleep,  and  the 
porridge-pot  from  which  she  had  given  the 
child  of  Saturnino  her  first  bit  and  sup. 

The  landlord  was  far  away  ;  the  steward 
pocketed  the  proceeds  of  the  sale,  though 
Joconda  had  paid  her  rent  beforehand,  as 
every  tenant  does  in  Italy ;  and  he  took 
credit  to  himself,  as  he  conversed  with  the 
people,  that  he  did  not  find  the  girl  out,  and 
make  her  render  him  up  the  mule.  So  an 
honest  life  went  out  under  the  smirch  of 
calumny,  as  a  sweet-smelling  pine-cone  goes 


268  IN  MAREMMA, 

out  ill  smoke  when  it  is  thrown  on  a  coke 
fire. 

In  Santa  Tarsilla  the  August  weather 
was  hot  with  the  cruel,  unchanging,  misty 
heat  that  breeds  all  manner  of  disease  from 
the  waters  and  the  earth,  and  which  is  only 
good  for  the  lecherous  vine  that  strangles 
the  maples  it  clings  to,  and  lives  on  to  steal 
the  soul  out  of  man  by  and  by,  and  vines  are 
there  none  in  Marerama. 

After  the  momentary  excitation  following 
on  Joconda's  death  and  legacy,  the  few 
inhabitants  returned  to  the  dull,  dropsical 
apathy  in  which  they  were  wont  to  pass 
their  lives.  The  girl  was  somewhere  on 
the  moors,  and  Andreino's  boat  was  missing 
one  night  from  its  mooring  by  the  mole, 
though  replaced  the  next ;  but  it  was  no 
concern  of  theirs.  Curiosity  consents  to  close 
its  unwinking  e3^es  when  interest  sings  its 
lullaby. 

Old  Andreino  had,  indeed,  spasms  of  the 
pain  of  conscience,  for  in  his  way  he  had 
been  fond  of  Musa,  and  had  a  regard  for 
the  woman  of  Savoy.  But  he  never  sought 
for  her.  Nay,  if  he  had  not  been  ashamed 
to  put  up  such  a  prayer  to  his  saint,  he 
would   have  entreated  S.    Andrea   to  grant 


IN  MAR:^MMA.  269 


him  never  to  see  her  face  again,  since  he  felt 
tliat  the  rebuke  and  the  reproach  of  those 
magnificent  jewel-Hke  eyes  would  be  very 
hard  to  bear,  and  he  remembered  how 
strong  her  wrist  was,  and  if  it  should  please 
her  to  belabour  him  with  one  of  liis  own 
oars  he  would  be  as  a  rush  in  the  grasp  of 
the  reed-cutter.  And  when  his  conscience 
pricked  him,  he  felt  that  he  had  behaved 
not  nobly  ;  and  he  was  sorry  for  his  con- 
duct ;  for,  after  all,  the  women  had  hustled 
him  so  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  get  one 
single  coin  that  had  rolled  out  of  the  pitcher. 

'I  might  just  as  well  have  stood  up  for 
her,'  he  thought  woefully  ;  '  and  after  all 
she  might  in  time  have  come  to  think  of 
our  little  Nandino.  I  was  too  quick  with 
her,  that  is  the  truth  ;  and  then  those  hags 
came  in  between  us  with  their  screeching — 
well,  the  Saints  grant  me  not  to  see  her 
face  ! ' 

He  was  terribly  afraid  lest  he  should 
see  her.  When  he  sat  on  the  mole  smokin^^ 
his  pipe  as  the  shadows  lengthened,  he 
scanned  anxiously  the  open  sea  and  the  low 
shore  in  fear  lest  he  should  behold  the  figure 
of  Musa  coming  between  him  and  the 
evening  sky. 


270  I^^  MAREMMA. 

But  the  days  and  the  weeks  and  the 
months  went  by,  and  she  never  came  back 
to  Santa  TarsiUa. 

One  night  Santa  Tarsilhi,  which  never 
hardly  heard  any  news  at  all  (the  only  news- 
sheet  in  the  place  being  the  priest's  copy  of 
the  Voce  della  Verita),  was  a  little  stirred  out 
of  its  feeble,  feverish  drowsiness  by  hearing 
that  the  escaped  galley-slave  Saturnino  Mas- 
tarna  had  been  captured  afresh  :  taken  by  the 
carabineers  after  a  fierce  fight,  having  been' 
discovered  as  he  was  hiding  in  a  wine-shop 
in  the  hamlet  of  Saturnia,  whose  ownei*, 
a  widow  woman,  had  gone  into  Orbetello 
to  sell  some  Etruscan  ornaments  and  an 
Etruscan  crown  of  oak  leaves  to  a  goldsmith. 

The  woman's  poverty,  and  her  halting 
,story  to  the  goldsmith,  had  roused  the 
suspicions  of  the  police,  and  the  carabineers, 
entering  her  house  by  force,  had  shot  down 
Saturnino  through  the  keyhole  of  a  door, 
and  had  seized  him,  after  being  crushed  by 
his  arms  and  rent  with  his  ^eeth  where  he 
lay  shot  on  the  ground,  as  though  he  were  a 
beast  of  prey  they  were  driving  out  of  its 
lair. 

Wounded  and  disabled,  but  not  so  greatly 
as  to  be  thought  in  peril  of  his   life,  the 


IX  MAIiEMMA.  271 

once  famous  brigand  liad  been  borne  to  tlie 
casemates  of  Orbetello,  thence  to  go  back 
to  his  doom  on  Gorgona.  So  the  pale, 
emaciated,  fever-shaken  coastguards  said  one 
night,  standing  about  on  the  mole,  and 
smoking  their  rank  tobacco. 

More  than  fourteen  years  had  gone  since 
the  name  of  Saturnino  had  been  at  once  the 
pride  and  the  terror  of  Mar  em  ma,  and  the 
legends  of  him  had  faded  off  the  minds  of 
the  people,  as  the  frescoes  of  their  churches 
faded  in  the  damp  of  ages.  Yet  when  they 
heard  his  name  ai^ain — that  name  which 
had  been  as  a  trumpet-call,  as  an  incanta- 
tion, as  the  belling  of  the  king-stag  in  the 
forest  to  his  herd — even  the  sickly  women 
lifted  their  heads,  even  the  palsied  men  took 
their  pipes  from  their  mouths :  '  he  was  a 
man  ! '  they  said  softly,  under  their  breath. 

The  mountain  robber  always  bewitches 
the  fancy  of  the  multitude,  and  the  robbery 
which  only  strii^es  at  the  rich  always  seems 
a  sort  of  rough  justice  to  the  poor :  the 
argument  of  the  bandit  is  the  argument  of 
the  socialist  couched  in  simpler  language. 

Beneath  their  subjugation  by  that  witchery 
of  adventure  and  of  defiance,  which  allure 
the  imagination    of  the  populace,   there   is 


2^2  M  MARJ^MMA. 


always,  also,  this  resentful  thought — he  is 
condemned,  this  bold  marauder  who  carries 
his  life  in  hand,  whilst  the  sleek  poltroons, 
the  thieves  in  broadcloth  and  fine  linen,  the 
Barabbi  of  commerce,  stalk  abroad  through 
the  tens  of  thousands  they  have  duped  or 
ruined,  untouched  by  law,  undenounced  by 
any  wrath  of  earth  or  wrath  of  heaven.  The 
preference  of  the  multitude  may  be  unsound 
morality,  but  it  has  a  wild  justice  and  a 
rude  logic  at  its  base. 

Santa  Tarsilla  once  more  lamented  for 
Saturnino.  It  was  of  the  same  mind  with  the 
mob  of  Orbetello,  which,  could  it  have  got 
at  the  woman  whose  stupidity  had  cost  him 
his  liberty,  would  have  made  her  rue  that 
ever  she  had  been  born. 

In  like  manner  all  the  villages  and  the 
towns  in  Maremma  mourned  for  him  ;  feel- 
ing pity  and  pain  for  the  old  eagle  of  their 
rocks  who  had  broken  loose  from  his  cage 
only  to  be  trapped  afresh.  He  had  once 
been  the  glory  of  Maremma ;  the  country 
was  hurt  in  its  own  pride  to  think  that  their 
hero  was  dealt  with  like  any  mean  cut-purse 
of  the  cities. 

Even  to  little  San  Lionardo  the  tidings 
of  his  sad  fate  travelled ;   travelled  by  the 


7.V  MA]^EM^fA.  273 

mouth  of  a  sen^ale  ;  that  is,  a  go-between, 
who  negotiates  with  the  farmers  or  shep- 
herds who  sell  cattle,  and  the  butchers  or 
breeders  who  buy  thein. 

Owners  and  buyers  would  be  much 
better  served  if  they  did  their  own  negotia- 
tions without  the  middleman  ;  but  Italy  is 
the  land  of  go-betweens,  in  commerce  as  in 
love,  and  these  men  swarm  over  the  land 
and  fill  their  money-bags  not  ill  nor  slowly. 

This  one,  riding  about  the  moors  in  the 
evening  time,  viewing  herds  and  flocks,  had 
business  which  took  him  to  San  Lionardo  ; 
a  little  white- washed  place  lying  on  the 
amethyst  and  pearl-grey  of  the  hills  like  a 
humble  sea-shell  on  a  grand  table  of  pietra 
dura  and  mosaic. 

San  Lionardo  never  knew  anything 
luiless  by  some  rare  stray  visit  of  a  pedlar 
or  of  a  dealer  ;  it  had  very  few  dwellers  in 
it,  and  had  not  even  a  church  or  a  priest. 
When  any  Avere  wedded  or  buried  in  the 
hamlet  they  had  to  go  up  miles  above, 
along  the  road  that  wound  over  the  bare 
face  of  the  stone  mountain,  where  every 
tree  and  shrub  had  been  felled,  and  the  sun 
scorched  the  rock,  that  had  not  the  shade  of 
even  a  leaf  or  a  blade  of  grass, 

VOL.  I.  T 


274  IN  MAREMMA. 

These  little  white  hamlets  and  towns  of 
Italy  glisten  all  over  her  long,  low,  mountain 
sides,  their  clmrch  towers  red- roofed  with 
tiles,  or  brown  Avith  wooden  belfry,  or 
pointed  with  the  air- perched  statue  of  a 
saint  in  their  midst,  and  not  seldom  around 
them  the  circle  of  broken  walls  which  tells 
the  tale  of  their  ancientness  and  of  their 
bygone  wars.  Oftentimes  they  are  old  as 
Eome  itself;  classic  as  Tusculum  ;  full  of 
memories  as  the  foundations  of  Troy  ;  but 
no  one  comes  to  them.  They  are  little, 
lonely,  humble  places  now,  far  out  of  the 
highways  of  men  ;  and,  save  their  spinning- 
women,  and  their  hinds  and  herdsmen,  and 
their  priest,  they  shelter  no  living  thing. 
When  winter  comes,  they  are  severed  by 
unbridged  torrents  even  from  other  villages 
that  lie  along  the  same  line  of  hills  ;  and  up 
to  their  heights  in  the  snow,  or  in  the  heat, 
no  traveller  ever  wanders. 

There  is  something  quaint,  pathetic, 
touching,  in  the  lives  that  begin  and  end  in 
these  solitary  places ;  the  hamlet  is  the 
nation  of  its  people,  and  the  church  tower 
to  them  is  the  centre  of  the  world.  The 
great  plains  lie  beneath  them,  and  often 
from  their  walls  the  sea  is  visible,  but  the 


ly  MAItEMMA.  275 

cities  and  the  seas  of  the  world  are  nouc^ht 
to  them ;  their  history  hes  in  Pippa's  plait- 
ing, in  Sandro's  bridal,  in  the  birth  of 
children,  in  the  huckster's  price  for  wool 
and  linen.  They  are  peaceful  lives  ;  simple, 
archaic,  close-clinging  about  tradition,  more 
innocent  than  most  lives  are ;  when  they 
are  no  more  on  the  face  of  the  mountains 
men  wdll  be  sadder,  and  earth  will  be  the 
poorer. 

Into  San  Lionardo  the  sensale  came  this 
day,  and,  drinking  his  thin  red  wine  at 
the  tavern  door,  told  the  few  people  of  the 
hamlet  how  the  brigand  had  been  captured, 
away  there  in  Orbetello.  There  was  a  little 
fellow  there  who  heard,  while  his  goats  and 
he  were  lying  in  the  shade  of  the  house 
wall. 

The  little  fellow  was  Zefferino,  whom  his 
village  called  Zirlo,  who  had  taken  his 
goats  up  to  the  hills  out  of  the  heat,  and 
who  listened  as  he  lay  in  the  shade  on  the 
stones. 

When  he  could  take  his  flock  again 
on  to  the  lower  lands,  in  the  greyness 
of  dawn,  which  is  the  freshest  hour  at  this 
season,  he  lost  no  time  in  descendincf  the 
inountain   side  and   making  for   the   moor, 

T  2 


276  IN  MAREMMA. 

until  he  came  to  broad  pools,  laden  with 
golden  and  white  water-liUes,  and  cliffs  of 
sandstone  broken  by  strata  of  palombino,  of 
macigno,  and  of  travertine. 

There  he  whistled  like  the  thrush. 

'  Via ! '  cried  the  voice  of  a  girl  from 
beneath  his  feet,  and  presently  the  face  and 
throat  of  Musa  raised  themselves  from  out  of 
the  acanthus  and  alaternus  and  enchanter's 
nightshade  that  grew  about  the  entrance 
of  the  tomb.  She  lifted  him  up  a  httle 
brown  earthenware  can ;  he  took  it  and 
milked  one  of  his  ewes,  and  handed  the  can 
back  to  her  full  of  milk.  She  had  been  up 
an  hoiu: ;  her  brilliant  face  was  like  a  flower 
in  its  freshness,  for  she  bathed  herself  in  the 
sea  every  daybreak ;  her  hair  was  brushed 
back  in  its  massive  undulations  and  just 
touched  her  throat,  as  Joconda  had  always 
kept  it ;  her  clothes  were  still  of  the  linen- 
cloth  Joconda  had  spun. 

She  took  the  milk  and  gave  him  a  little 
copper  coin,  and  came  up  with  a  piece  of 
black  bread  in  her  hand,  and  ate  the  bread 
and  drank  the  milk,  sitting  on  a  stone 
amongst  the  wild  clematis,  and  sharing  her 
meal  with  Leone. 

She   had  made   friends  with   Zefferino  ; 


IN  MARJSMMA.  ^'17 

there  was  a  certain  distance  between  them 
always  because  he  was  a  httle  afraid  of  her, 
and  she  was  a  httle  suspicious  of  him.  He  had 
been  forced  to  swear  to  her  that  he  would 
tell  no  one  how  or  where  she  dwelt,  and 
having  sworn  this,  he  shared  her  confidence. 
One  thing  alone  she  never  told  him,  that 
she  had  brought  the  coffin  of  Joconda  there, 
and  had  laid  it  in  an  inner  chamber  of  the 
painted  tombs. 

He  was  of  use  to  her. 

She  cut  the  lake-rush  and  the  chair- 
maker 's-rush  and  wove  them  into  rude 
matting  and  into  frail  baskets,  and  he  sold 
these  to  San  Lionardo  folk  for  a  few  cen- 
times. She  had  learned  many  uses  of  edible 
roots  and  cryptogams  from  Joconda,  and 
gathered  those,  and  he  sold  them  also  ;  he 
brought  lier  flax  and  she  spun  it ;  he  brought 
her  straw  and  she  plaited  it ;  when  his  goats 
were  on  tlie  hills  and  his  smaller  brother 
minded  them,  he  had  run  to  and  fro  on  her 
errands.  Busy  and  fond  of  money,  which 
his  father  never  let  him  handle,  he  was  glad 
to  go  between  moorland  and  mountain  on 
these  missions,  and  could  cheat  her  com- 
fortably with  a  childish  glee  that  was  united 
with  a  shrewd  self-interest. 


278  IN  MAREMMA. 

He  was  only  a  little  fellow,  living,  with 
his  goats  and  his  reed-pipe  and  his  naked 
feet,  the  most  sylvan  and  pastoral  hfe  in  the 
world ;  but  he  knew  the  worth  of  money 
as  well  as  the  bailiff  adding  up  figures  in 
his  fat  note-book,  or  the  innkeeper  selling 
watered  draughts  to  thirsty  wayfarers. 

Zefierino  was  a  pretty  little  curly-headed 
boy,  with  a  sweet  voice,  a  sunny  smile, 
and  limbs  like  a  child-Bacchus ;  he  was 
affectionate  and  he  was  very  innocent,  but 
all  the  same  he  knew  how  to  lie  and  he 
knew  how  to  cheat,  his  round  laughing  eyes 
open  and  candid  all  the  while,  and  his 
mouth  smiling. 

Why  not  ?  Had  he  not  seen  the  wine- 
carriers  bore  the  hole  in  the  cask  and  suck 
the  wine  out  with  a  straw,  and  sell  sucli  a 
drink  to  anybody  on  the  road  ?  Had  he 
not  always  heard  his  father,  bartering  with 
the  cattle-dealer,  say,  '  And  what  will  there 
be  as  mancia  for  me  ?  '  which  meant,  '  Hoav 
much  will  you  let  me  rob  my  friend  if  I 
induce  him  to  sell  you  this  beast?  ' 

So  he  himself  robbed  this  strange 
maiden,  of  whom  he  was  half  frightened 
always  ;  yet  he  loved  her  and  admired  her 
in  his  half-hearted  way,  and  kept  her  secret 


IN  MAREMMA.  279 


for  her,  because  he  tliouglit  if  others  knew 
that  she  lived  here  down  in  the  ground  they 
might  do  3vhat  she  wanted,  and  so  he  would 
lose  the  taste  of  her  pratajoli  huoni  ^  and 
blackberries  and  broth,  and  all  those  cen 
times  that  got  him  bread  and  polenta  and 
salt  lish  and  rude  sweetmeats,  such  as  okl 
Deaneira  sold  in  San  Lionardo,  sitting  at  the 
stall  under  the  battered  Madonna  in  her 
iron  cage,  against  the  old  watch-tower  wall, 
that  looked  down  from  tlie  hills  on  moor 
and  sea. 

'  Are  you  liappy  liere  ? '  he  asked  her 
now,  sitting  with  his  legs  drawn  up  amongst 
the  purple  loosestrife,  all  dry  with  tlie  ])ast 
summer  heat ;  watching  lier  as  slie  ale,  while 
his  goats  strayed  about,  cropping  what  they 
would,  the  fourfooted  Huns  that  rava^re  the 
mountains  and  the  forests  and  lay  them  bare 
as  with  fire,  so  that  nothing  will  ever  spring 
again  where  their  little  hoofs  have  trodden 
and  their  little  teeth  have  browsed. 

'  Happy  !  '  echoed  Musa  ;  the  word 
sounded  strangely.  '  I  do  not  know.  I  am 
alone  ;  that  is  always  good.' 

She  had  never  heard  of  Chateaubriand, 
w^ho  wrote  above  his  house  in  the  depth  of 

^  Ayaricus  campestris. 


S80  IN  MARBMMA. 

the  Breton  solitudes,  a  Vahri  des  hommes. 
But  the  spirit  that  moved  him  to  write  it 
was  in  her. 

Zirlo  tilted  himself  over  on  his  back. 

He  was  a  child,  so  he  let  the  reply  he 
had  had  go  by  without  compliment.  He 
said  instead  : 

'  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  Saturnino  is  taken.* 

'  Taken ! ' 

She  left  off  eatincp  and  stared  at  him, 
with  a  light  in  her  gaze  and  a  flush  on  her 
cheek.    , 

'Yes.  On  the  coast.  A  woman  was 
selling  his  gold  things  for  him,  and  they  shot 
him  down  in  the  Orbetellano.' 

She  leapt  to  her  feet,  her  eyes  flashed,  her 
whole  face  lit  up  with  exultation. 

'  Selling  my  gold — their  gold  !  They 
took  him  so  ?     I  am  glad  !     I  am  glad  ! ' 

*  It  was  not  yours,'  said  Zefferino,  who 
knew  from  her  what  the  galley-slave  had  done. 

'No.  It  was  ^/mns.  It  was  sacred.  He 
stole  it ;  he  is  well  served.  If  it  had  been 
my  own  I  would  not  have  minded ;    but  a 

thing  that  belonged  to  the  dead ! oh,  it 

was  vile,  vile !  And  I  wronged  Joconda 
that  I  might  feed  him  ;  I  left  her  alone  to 
return  to  him,  and  she  died  ;    I  am  glad 


2N  MAREMMA.  281 

indeed  that  they  have  got  him.  Are  you 
certain  it  is  true  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  yes,'  said  the  little  lad  ;  '  they  sliot 
him  down  as  they  shoot  the  roebucks  here, 
and  took  him ;  he  was  alive,  though  badly 
hurt.  He  fought  like  a  devil,  but  there  was 
the  whole  troop  of  the  carabineers  all  there. 
They  do  say  that  another  one,  who  got  away 
from  Gorgona  with  him,  is  loose  still,  hiding 
somewhere  in  the  hills,  but  about  that  I  do 
not  know  much.  But  there  is  a  reward  for 
anyone  who  sees  him,  and  I  mean  to  look 
about ;  I  might  get  the  money  as  well  as 
another.' 

'  I  am  glad  he  is  taken,'  said  Musa,  un- 
heeding ;  '  I  am  glad.  He  robbed  them  and 
he  was  false  to  me.' 

Zirlo  shuddered.  Had  he  not  himself 
cheated  her  to  go  and  nibl)le  at  mother 
Deaneira's  stall? 

'You  are  savage,'  he  said  with  a  little 
whimper  and  tremor.  '  That  poor  soul  was 
a  brave  man  they  say,  and  never  did  any 
sin  except  lightening  rich  men's  purses ;  he 
used  to  live  upon  the  mountains,  right  away 
there  as  higli  as  the  stars  are,  and  never 
touched  a  poor  man  ;  they  all  say  so, — only 
the  rich ' 


282  IN  MAREMMA. 


'  And  is  not  the  gold  of  the  rich  their  own 
as  well  as  the  crust  of  the  poor  ? '  said  Musa 
with  scorn  in  her  low  tones.  '  He  was  a 
thief;  a  thief;  and  a  traitor.  I  sheltered 
liira,  and  he  robbed  the  dead.  He  was  a 
thief  and  a  traitor.' 

Zirlo  rolled  over  and  hid  his  face  in  the 
green  bichierini,^  pretending  to  catch  a  lizard. 
He  had  gone  back  into  the  tombs  the  very 
day  after  the  galley-slave  had  robbed  them, 
conquering  his  abject  fear  of  the  place  for 
sake  of  the  gold  toys  and  the  gold  lamps 
that  he  too  would  have  taken  if  he  could 
only  have  found  them. 

'And  I  sliould  not  have  been  a  thief,' 
thought  Zirlo,  with  national  soj)histry  instinc- 
tive in  him.  '  1  should  not  have  been  a 
thief ;  they  belonged  to  nobody ;  they  were 
as  much  mine  as  hers.' 

Yet  not  for  worlds  would  he  have  had 
her  know  that  he  had  ever  crept  into  the 
graves  on  any  such  errand. 

'  He  was  a  thief  and  a  traitor.  And  he 
was  taken  as  he  sold  the  gold  ?  I  am  glad,' 
she  said  once  more,  and  her  face  was 
exultant,  sombre,  almost  cruel. 

The   fate  of  the  robber  of  the   tombs 

^  Zichefi jyyaidatus. 


IN  MAREMMA.  283 


seemed  to  her  so  just ;  it  was  almost 
beautiful  in  its  inexorable  and  instant 
justice. 

'  You  are  savage,'  said  Zirlo. 

'  Why  not  ?  '  she  answered  ;  to  be  savage 
was  right  enough ;  it  was  what  they 
called  the  boar,  when  he  fought  for  his 
own  poor  life,  and  his  own  lair  in  the 
tliickets. 

The  boy  said  nothing.  He  was  frightened. 
If  ever  she  knew,  he  thought,  of  those  cen- 
times ? 

Musa  rose,  leaving  the  rest  of  her  bread 
uneaten,  and  dropping  it  between  the  paw^s 
of  the  dog. 

'  He  wronged  my  shelter  and  betrayed 
me,'  she  said  once  more.  '  He  has  met  a 
right  fate.  Zirlo,  drive  your  goats  fhrtlier 
on  ;  my  mule  needs  this  forage.' 

Zirlo  rose  and  mutely  obeyed. 

His  heart  was  beating.  He  w^ished  that 
the  polenta  and  baccala  that  liad  tempted 
liim,  and  that  old  Deaneira's  luscious  muscat 
wine  that  was  like  the  honey  of  thyme-fed 
bees,  had  all  been  down  the  throats  of  tlie 
people  of  San  Lionardo  instead  of  down  his 
own. 

'If  ever  slic  know,  she    will   beat   me 


284  iA^  MAREMMA. 

black  and  blue,  or  throw  me  with  one  hand 
into  the  sea,'  thought  the  little  sinner 
miserably. 

She  went  down  into  the  tomb,  and  brought 
the  mule  up  to  pasture  while  there  was  still 
some  coolness  and  shade ;  then  she  again 
descended,  lit  her  little  fire  and  put  on  her 
pot  with  fish  and  herbs  to  stew  by  noontide, 
and  took  up  her  distaff  and  went  and  sat  in 
the  open  air  once  more. 

She  was  oppressed  and  absorbed  by  the 
tidings  of  the  galley-slave's  capture.  She  was 
glad  ;  yes,  she  was  glad  ;  but  the  gladness 
began  to  glow  less  hotly  in  her  :  she  thought 
of  the  wretched  homeless  fugitive  as  he  had 
sat  on  the  sands  after  her  rescue  of  him  :  for 
what  had  she  rescued  him  ? — only  for  fresh 
torture. 

All  was  still  around  her  in  the  hush  of 
early  day:  the  only  sound  v/as  the  insect 
life  that  is  never  still  on  those  moors  and 
marshes  night  and  day.  The  first  heavy 
rains  of  September  had  fallen  and  the  re- 
freshed earth  was  growing  once  more  green, 
and  the  fainted  leaves  arose  and  stood  out  in 
the  clear  air.  The  snakes  were  sorry  the 
drought  was  gone,  but  all  other  living  things 
were  glad. 


IN  MAREMMA.  285 

Zirlo,  who  had  sent  his  goats  farther  away, 
strayed  back  and  stood  looking  at  old  Cecco, 
the  mule. 

'  He  is  of  no  use  to  you  ? '  he  said 
timidl}^ 

'  No  use  ;  no.' 

'  Would  vou  not  sell  him  ?  '  lie  said  more 
timidly  too,  thinking  of  the  sensale. 

'  I  would  not  sell  him.' 

'  You  would  get  money  for  him — much 
money ' 

'  I  do  not  want  money.' 

'  But  you  want  to  eat.' 

'  I  get  enough  to  do  that.' 

'  He  is  old ' 

'  The  more  reason  to  keep  him  by  me ; 
old  things  fare  ill  with  strangers.' 

Zirlo  eyed  the  mule  wistfully,  and 
went  away  a  little  sulky  and  a  good  deal 
afraid. 

'What  will  you  do  in  the  winter?'  he 
said  fretfully.  '  I  cannot  leave  the  goats  to 
run  your  en-ands  in  the  winter.  Sometimes 
it  snows,  too,  and  I  am  always  very  busy. 
You  must  go  up  and  live  in  San  Lionardo  ; 
that  is  what  you  must  do.' 

'  I  shall  not  do  that,'  said  Musa  ;  '  I  shall 
live  where  I  am.     You  will  do  my  errands 


286  IN  MAREMMA. 

ill  whiter  and  in  summer  both  when  you 
want  a  bowl  full  of  soup  or  a  handful  of 
mushrooms.' 

Then  Zefierino  cried. 

He  did  not  like  her  to  fancy  him 
selfish. 

'  For  if  she  once  think  me  so,'  he  thought, 
'  she  will  begin  to  doubt,  and  to  count  the 
centimes.' 

But  Musa  did  not  count  the  centimes. 

When  the  heat  of  noon  came,  she  took 
the  mule  down  into  the  painted  chambers 
of  the  dead,  and  sat  there  herself.  Zirlo 
came  too ; — a  pretty  little  quaint  figure,  a 
childish  Faunus  ; — and  asked  her  for  a  bowl 
of  soup.  Then  together  they  ate,  using  the 
black  earthenware  cups  and  platters  that  had 
been  strewn  on  the  floor  of  the  tombs  :  cups 
and  platters  made  two  thousand  years  before, 
made  for  the  banquets  of  the  dead,  and  per- 
haps profaned  by  their  young  lips,  yet  inno- 
cently so. 


<cr^ 


CHAPTEE  Xiy. 

|0    the    days    i3assed    by   and   the 

weeks  and  the  months,  and  the 

i^2     life  was  always  the  same  there. 

The  death  of  Joconda  had  left  an  awful 
blank  of  silence  and  loneliness  around  her. 
In  its  desolation  she  realised  all  that  the 
dead  woman  had  been  to,  and  had  done  for, 
her,  and  a  great  remorse  entered  into  her. 
She  had  been  too  thankless,  she  had  been 
indifferent,  unthinking,  hard  of  heart,  so  she 
thought ;  and  she  would  have  given  her  life 
to  have  those  brown,  wrinkled,  rough  hands 
in  hers  for  one  hour. 

Apart  from  this  great  sorrow  she  was 
happy  in  her  wild,  lonely  life  on  the  moor. 
She  had  no  one  to  say  her  yea  or  nay.  She 
was  as  free  as  the  wild  boar  himself;    and 


288  IN  MAREMMA. 

the  wholesome  winds  of  the  west  blew 
against  her  face,  and  nigh  at  hand  was  the 
green  autumn  of  Maremma. 

So  she  took  up  her  domicile  in  earnest 
there,  and  ceased  to  feel  desolate. 

The  jewellery  was  all  that  Saturnino  had 
robbed  from  the  tombs,  and  the  utensils  of 
bronze  and  of  pottery  served  all  her  daily 
needs.  Untroubled  by  any  knowledge  of 
their  history  and  antiquity,  yet  vaguely 
moved  to  reverent  use  of  them  because  they 
belonged  to  these  dead  owners  of  the  place, 
whom  she  revered,  she  took  the  bronze 
oinochoe  with  her  to  the  water  spring,  she 
set  her  herb-soup  on  the  embers  in  the 
bronze  situla,  she  made  her  oaten  bread  in 
the  embossed  phiale.  she  drank  the  broth  out 
of  the  painted  depas,  shaped  like  that  cup 
of  the  sun  in  which  the  Python  Slayer  once 
passed  across  the  sea.  She  used  all  these 
things  reverently,  washed  them  with  careful 
hands,  and  never  thought  they  were  dis- 
honoured thus. 

The  Typhon  frowned  at  her  from  the 
ceiling  of  the  tomb,  and  the  Dii  Involuti 
turned  their  impassive  faces  on  her  every 
time  she  passed  out  of  the  stone  doors  or 
chmbed    the    steep    stair    passage    to    the 


IX  MAREMMA,  289 

open  air  ;  but  she  knew  notliing  of  tlieir 
dread  attributes,  and  though  they  awed  her 
they  did  not  fill  her  with  any  painful  fear. 
She  did  not  understand  them  ;  there  was 
no  one  to  explain  to  her  the  meanings  of  the 
paintings,  and  carvings,  and  the  letters  on  the 
walls ;  but  she  grew  into  a  great  and  tender 
sympathy  with  them  which  was  in  itself  a 
sort  of  comprehension. 

Even  of  the  terrible  shapes  she  had  no 
fear ;  the  dread  winged  boy  with  hoary  locks 
of  age,  that  the  Etruscans  feared  as  higher 
than  the  gods,  had  no  terror  in  his  frown 
for  her  ;  and  the  veiled  divinities  who  sat 
beside  the  inner  door  of  the  warrior's  tomb, 
who  for  the  dead  had  been  tyrants  of  fate, 
mystic,  inscrutable,  omnipotent,  grew  to  be  to 
her  as  playmates  and  as  friends.  The  very 
twihfifht  and  hush  and  solemn  sadness  of  this 
place  were  but  so  much  added  sweetness  to 
her.  And  in  her  there  seemed  to  have  been 
always  that  melancholy,  and  that  obedience 
to  destiny,  which  were  the  characteristics  of 
the  Etruscan  religion,  even  when  most  they 
loved  the  lyre  and  the  lotus  garland  and  the 
brimming  rhyton. 

Here  was  her  refuge,  her  palace,  her 
place   of  sanctity    and    dreams;     Jure    tlie 

VOL.  I.  U 


290  IN  MAREMMA. 

native  unconscious  poetry  and  passion  in  her 
found  a  likeness  to  themselves,  a  consolation 
for  the  unlovely  life  that  seemed  to  pollute 
the  sea  and  shore  in  the  only  group  of  human 
habitations  that  she  knew,  and  which  hurt  her 
without  her  ever  tracing  the  why  or  where- 
fore. 

She  managed  to  live  very  well ;  her 
wants  were  few,  and  the  moors  supplied  all 
save  one  or  two  of  her  needs,  such  as  oil  to 
burn,  and  flax  to  spin,  and  hens  to  keep  for 
eggs,  and  these  Zefferino  brought  to  her, 
being  paid  for  them  with  scrupulous  punc- 
tuality out  of  the  two  silver  pieces  that  she 
possessed. 

She  found  she  could  cut  the  wild  oats  in 
plenty  for  the  old  mule,  which  was  all  she 
needed  herself,  since  she  could  live  on  the 
bread  she  so  made,  and  she  could  make 
enough  any  day  in  the  year  for  herself  and 
the  dog. 

It  is  wonderful  how  few  are  the  actual 
wants  of  a  human  life  that  is  far  away  from 
all  artificial  stimulus  and  necessities. 

She  was  up  as  soon  as  the  white  gleam 
of  dawn  showed  above  the  barren  mountains 
of  the  eastern  sky-hne,  and,  long  before  the 
heavens  there  grew  warm  with  that  sunrise 


IN  MAREMMA.  291 


flush  which  is  as  bright  and  deep  a  rose  as 
any  oleander-flower,  she  said  her  Latin 
prayer  at  daybreak  beside  the  coffin  of 
Joconda,  as  she  liad  been  used  to  do  by 
her  side,  tended  the  mule  and  the  doii, 
baked  her  rude  loaves,  and  swept  over  and 
burnished  her  stone  chambers  and  her  bronze 
utensils  with  those  northern  habits  of 
cleanliness  and  order  in  which  the  woman 
of  Savoy  had  reared  her. 

Then  she  was  free  to  roam  all  the  day 
long,  and  go  out  upon  the  sea  as  she  might 
choose  ;  every  day  she  dipped  and  dived  and 
swam  like  any  gannet.  She  bathed  twice 
daily,  either  in  fresh  water  or  salt  water, 
with  as  much  zest  as  her  winged  comrades  ; 
and  she  kept  her  thick  hair,  that  clustered 
like  the  bronze  curls  of  a  Greek  bust,  and 
all  her  simple  apparel  clean  and  in  .order, 
obeying  all  that  dead  Joconda  had  enjoined 
on  her  as  her  daily  habits,  with  as  impUcit  an 
obedience  as  ever  on  that  soil  the  Etruscans 
had  shown  to  tlie  commands  of  Tages. 

That  was  her  fashion  of  repentance  for 
many  a  moment  of  petulance,  and  many  an 
hour  of  wilful  indifference,  which  were  to  her 
memory  as  the  sting  of  the  spine  of  the 
yucca  is  to  the  flesh. 

u  2 


292  /iV  MAREMMA. 


Now  and  then,  faintly  from  a  distance, 
the  bells  of  some  hamlet  or  of  some  monastery 
would  ring  over  the  plains,  and  be  wafted  by 
the  wind  to  her  ear;  now  and  then  some 
shot  would  sound  from  some  little  lagoon,  or 
some  thicket  of  box  elder,  and  wild  olive, 
where  the  strangers  were  slaying  the  natives 
of  the  marsh  and  the  moor  ;  this  was  all  she 
heard  of  the  living  world,  and  she  desired  to 
learn  no  more.  She  lived  with  the  dead  ;  and 
something  of  their  cold  repose,  their  ineffable 
indifference,  their  passionless  defiance  of 
mankind,  had  come  upon  her  and  entered 
her  soul. 

She  had  quite  forgotten  she  was 
young.  She  had  never  known  that  she  was 
beautiful. 

She  was  not  afraid  of  anything ;  she 
had  the  courage  of  Saturnino  in  her  blood, 
and  with  it  the  superb  innocence  of  a  child's 
soul  that  has  never  been  dimmed  by  the 
breath  of  folly. 

Whilst  it  was  summer  weather  even  sliep- 
herds  and  herdsmen  were  never  seen  ;  the 
Hocks  were  on  the  mountain,  the  harvests  had 
been  reaped  at  midsummer,  the  chase  was 
forbidden  by  the  law  ;  all  Maremma  was  as 
gilent  as  the  heart   of  the  S^har^.     Sqme- 


IN  MAREMMA.  293 


times,  against  the  law,  which  is  utterly  defied 
in  this  respect  all  over  the  country,  raen 
would  come  over  the  scorching  moor  at 
eventide  to  set  their  fell  net,  the  square 
paratoio  with  its  fettered  call-bird,  and  would 
watch  all  night  at  peril  of  their  lives  from  the 
swamp-gases,  and  at  daybreak  would  carry 
away  their  poor  fluttering  struggling  prey. 
But  even  these  were  few  and  far  between, 
because  the  fever  and  ague  of  the  marshes 
had  terrors  enough  to  daunt  and  conquer 
greed. 

In  summer  she  and  Zefferino  had  these 
moors  to  themselves,  and  even  Zefferino  had 
been  more  alarmed  at  the  heat  and  the  fever 
than  she,  and  stayed  for  days  together  upon 
the  wooded  spur  of  his  native  mountain, 
where  the  miasma  seldom  reached. 

So  the  long  days  went  by,  one  by  one, 
and  were  not  long  to  her  ;  and  at  noontide 
she  slept  soundly  and  dreamlessly  within  the 
cool  solitude  of  the  tombs,  safe  as  a  mole  in 
his  castle,  refreshed  as  a  coot  on  tlie  breast 
of  the  pool.  In  the  short  nights,  above  all 
when  they  were  moonlit,  she  did  not  care  to 
sleep ;  she  sat  at  the  entrance  of  the  graves 
with  tlie  white  dog  like  a  carved  marble 
thing  at  her   feet,  and  watched  the  sylvan 


294  IN  MAREMMA. 


life  that  stirs  at  dark  flit  over  the  face  of 
the  sky  or  the  shadows  of  the  earth.  She 
could  not  see  the  sea,  the  growth  of  the  low 
woodland  was  too  thick,  but  she  could  hear 
the  surf  breaking  on  the  shore,  and  often 
when  a  steamer  was  passing,  or  a  brig  coast- 
ing, or  a  fishing  barque  standing  in  under 
the  wind,  she  could  hear  the  beat  of  paddles 
or  the  rattling  of  halyards  or  the  voices  of 
fishermen  calling  to  each  other. 

The  sea  was  near  enough  to  give  the  sweet 
sense  of  its  strong  companionship,  and  if  she 
climbed  the  sandstone  only  a  little  way  and 
overlooked  the  darksome  stretch  of  myrtle 
and  oak  scrub,  she  could,  at  any  moonlit  hour, 
see  it  sparkling  underneath  the  stars,  flowing 
away  into  the  infinite  space  of  the  clouds  and 
the  night,  phosphorescent,  radiant,  hushed — 
the  black  fantastic  crags  of  Elba  borne  upon 
its  waters  like  a  barque. 

So  the  end  of  the  summer  passed  with  her 
untroubled  except  by  that  sense  of  ingrati- 
tude towards  her  lost  friend  which  lay  like  a 
stone  on  her  heart.  Whenever  she  knelt 
by  the  coffin  she  said  at  the  close  of  her 
prayers  always  :  '  Dear  and  good  one,  for- 
give me.     I  was  blind ! ' 

The     need     of    companionship     never 


IN  MAREMMA.  295 

weighed  on  her.  She  was  iincouscioiisly 
happy  in  the  air,  m  the  liberty,  in  the 
dehghtful  sense  of  heahhfiil  and  untram- 
melled life. 

Her  mind  busied  itself  with  its  own 
vague  imaginations,  and  her  mode  of  life 
was  filled  with  that  sombre  mystery  which 
she  loved  as  the  Etruscan  race  had  loved  it. 
If  she  had  been  shut  in  the  garret  or  the 
factory-room  of  a  city,  this  temper  would 
have  become  morbid  and  dangerous  in  her  ; 
but,  braced  by  the  daily  physical  labours  of 
her  life,  and  by  the  abundant  and  vigorous 
exercise  of  all  her  bodily  powers,  it  only 
served  to  give  a  solace,  and  a  sort  of  sub- 
limity, to  a  fate  which  would  have  seemed  to 
many  hard  and  friendless.  The  moorlands 
and  the  moorland  sepulchres  were  made  for 
her  and  she  for  them. 

The  visits  of  little  Zefferino  kept  her 
from  that  absolute  solitude  which  in  time 
luirts  the  mind  and  distorts  it.  He  was  a 
very  human  little  thing;  greedy,  playful, 
timid,  kindly  when  it  cost  him  notliing,  most 
kindly  when  he  gained  most  by  it ;  a  com- 
plete little  epitome  of  humanity  clothed  in 
shaggy  goat's  hair. 

She  grew  fond  of  the  child^  and  was  in- 


296  M  MAREMMA. 


diligent  to  him  with  that  indulgence  of  the 
strong  to  the  weak  which  is  often  misunder- 
stood, abused,  and  preyed  upon  by  the  feeble. 
She  knew  that  he  told  lies  by  the  hundred, 
and  pilfered  when  he  could,  and  had  no  more 
real  heart  in  him  than  the  red  and  white 
pumpkin  that  keeps  the  beauty  of  its  quaint 
shell  whilst  the  summer  sun  has  sucked  up 
all  its  pulp  inside  it.  Yet  he  was  loving  and 
lovable  in  his  own  way,  and  Musa,  who 
thought  he  loved  her,  was  glad  to  see  him 
always  as  she  was  glad  to  see  the  birds  and 
flowers. 

They  were  more  truly  her  companions, 
however,  than  he.  She  was  always  in  the 
air,  except  when  the  sudden  and  frequent 
storms  of  the  Maremma  drove  her  perforce 
into  the  shelter  of  the  sepulchre,  although 
the  '  bolt-hurling  gods  '  of  the  tempests  had 
no  terror  for  her  as  they  had  had  for  the 
Tyrrhenian  multitude  who  had  seen  divine 
wrath  in  every  electric  flash,  and  heard 
imprecation  and  prophecy  in  every  roll  of 
thunder  that  echoed  from  the  Apennine  to 
the  Ciminian  hills. 

The  white  straitjht  rain,  the  slanting  wind- 
blown  showers,  the  blackness  of  hurrying 
storm-charged  cloud,  the  strange  yellow  light 


AV  MARE  MM  A.  297 

that  made  the  leaves  look  like  foliage  cast  in 
copper  and  the  skies  like  a  vault  of  brass, 
the  ominous  hiss  and  shriek  of  the  wind  that 
made  the  slow  buffaloes  gallop  fast  with  fear, 
and  filled  the  air  w^ith  the  hurrying  wings  of 
frightened  birds,  all  these  w^ere  to  her  only 
as  the  sound  of  trumpet  and  the  smell  of 
powder  to  the  war-horse.  The  storms  were 
fierce  and  swift,  and  rent  like  a  veil  the 
drowsy  languor  and  heat  of  the  usual  at- 
mosphere. She  w^ould  see  them  coming 
over  the  sea  from  the  west  at  sunset,  or 
gathering  above  the  southern  horizon, 
where  the  Eoman  Campagna  and  the  Pontine 
marshes  were  steaming  with  vapour. 

Wlien  the  autumn  arrived,  she  was  un- 
dismayed by  the  prospect  of  winter  there, 
although  she  felt  afraid  that  it  would  be 
more  difficult  to  keep  out  of  sight  of  men  in 
the  season  wlien  tlie  waterfowl  and  the 
roebuck  and  the  boar  were  himted  from 
dawn  to  twilight  in  their  native  haunts. 

At  this  time  of  the  year,  too,  the  flocks 
came  down  from  the  mountains,  footsore, 
travel-tired,  witli  tlie  sliepherdandhis  woman 
and  children  behind  them  footsore  also,  and 
the  white  dogs  that  were  kin  to  Leone  running 
among  the  bleating   sheep.     She  saw  these 


298  IN  MAREMMA. 


travelling  tribes  more  than  once;  dusty- 
jaded  crowds  moving  slowly  over  the  marsh 
and  moor.  The  shepherds  are  solitary  and 
sullen  people  for  the  most  part,  and  instead 
of  a  crook  they  often  have  a  carbine.  She 
avoided  them  and  let  them  pass  on  southward 
to  the  rich  low  pastures,  afraid  that  if  they 
knew  of  her  retreat  they  might  rob  her  of  it. 
As  little  did  she  like  the  hunters  who  harried 
the  boar  in  his  brake  and  shot  the  wildfowl 
in  the  marshes.  What  harm  did  those  wild 
boars  do,  living  on  the  roots  of  the  earth  and 
the  acorns,  or  the  lovely  green-throated  drake 
of  the  swamp  floating  his  little  day  away 
amongst  the  weeds  and  lilies  ? 

Except  these,  there  were  not  many  new- 
comers to  fear,  her  own  immediate  portion  in 
the  Etruscan  kingdom  was  so  overgrown  with 
thickets  and  low  timber  and  matted  parasites 
that  w^alking  was  almost  impracticable,  and 
a  bill-hook  was  needed  at  almost  every  step, 
and  the  quagmires  and  swamps  that  sepa- 
rated it  from  the  vast  grain  fields  to  the 
north  deterred  all  save  the  boldest  and  the 
hardiest  from  adventuring  there. 

It  never  occurred  to  her  that  her  life 
would  alter.  Of  love  she  knew  nothing, 
and  marriage,  when  she  tliought  about  it. 


IN  MAREMMA.  209 


seemed  to  her,  as  she  had  said  to  Andreino, 
an  unequal  and  unjust  division  of  toil. 

Her  only  fear  of  men  was  lest,  if  they 
knew  of  her  beloved  tombs,  they  miglit 
drive  her  out  and  rifle  them  of  the  bronze 
and  the  pottery  as  the  galley-slave  had  done 
of  the  gold.  It  was  for  that  reason  alone 
that  she  scanned  the  horizon  with  the  keen- 
ness of  the  roebuck,  and  fled  at  any  sound  of 
steps  into  the  shelter  of  the  thorny  coverts 
with  tlie  self-preserving  instinct  of  the  moun- 
tain hare. 

The  chill  season  was  at  hand,  but  she  was 
not  mucli  in  awe  of  it ;  she  was  only  afraid 
lest  those  sportsmen  whose  guns  echoed  over 
the  lonely  wastes,  or  the  labourers  from  the 
north  who  passed  by  on  their  way  to  level 
some  remnant  of  sacred  wood  or  of  historic 
forest,  should  see  her  and  wonder  and  talk. 

She  grew  learned  in  all  the  ways  of 
nature,  and,  could  .she  have  told  or  written 
all  she  saw,  would  have  lent  much  to  the 
world's  knowledge  of  fauna  and  of  flora.  In 
proportion  as  she  fled  from  man  so  she  grew 
familiar  with  and  endeared  to  the  beasts  and 
birds  that  filled  the  moorland  with  innocent 
life,  and  with  as  deep  an  interest  as  ever  ihe 
Etruscan  priests  had  watched  them,  to  fore- 


300  IN  MAREMMA. 

cast  from  tliem  augiiry  of  the  future,  did  she 
watch  in  awe  and  ecstasy  that  miracle — 
perhaps  of  all  the  greatest  miracle — of 
nature,  the  migration  of  the  winged  nations 
of  the  air. 

She  did  not  know  what  these  flights 
meant,  but  she  observed  and  pondered  on 
them  with  intense  curiosity  and  interest  as 
the  winged  tribes  changed  their  feeding 
grounds,  and  came,  and  went ;  the  northern 
birds  arriving  as  the  songsters  of  the  south 
fled. 

A  triangle  of  silvery  grey  would  float 
slowly  down  the  yellow  light  of  closing  day ; 
it  was  the  phalanx  of  the  storks  passing  over 
the  country  without  resting  there ;  wisely 
distrusting  the  land  beyond  all  others  fatal 
to  all  birds.  Less  wise,  though  usually  so 
cautious  in  his  ways,  there  flew  here  in  large 
bands  the  bright  and  gracious  lapwing  from 
the  frozen  canals  of  the  Low  Countries  and 
the  German  forests  covered  deep  in  snow. 

In  a  waving  line,  graceful  against  the 
sky  as  the  sway  of  a  reed  against  the  water, 
a  band  of  the  glossy  ibis  would  go  by  on 
their  aerial  voyage  to  Egypt  or  to  India. 
The  crows  sailed  over  her  head  from  Switzer- 
land or  Sweden,  not  pausing,  or,  if  pausing  at 


IN  MAREMMA.  301 

all,  dropping  on  the  moor  for  a  few  days 
of  rest  only,  and  going  straight  towards 
the  Soudan  or  the  Blue  Nile.  The  ever- 
wandering  quails  fell,  in  autumn  as  in 
spring,  panting  and  exhausted  in  milhons 
on  the  beach  and  turf,  so  strangely  ill- 
fitted  by  nature  for  the  long,  almost  per- 
petual, flight  that  nature  impelled  them  to 
undertake. 

There  would  break  upon  the  silence  of  the 
moors  at  night  a  sound  as  of  flames  crack- 
ling and  hissing  over  dry  turf  and  through 
dry  wood  ;  and  it  was  but  the  noise  of  a 
mile- long  troop  of  wild  ducks  coming  from 
the  Polar  seas  to  the  Tuscan  lagoons. 

The  kittiwake  and  the  tarn  and  the 
storm  swallow  forsook  their  Finnish  fjords 
and  Greenland  rocks  to  come  and  fish  in 
the  blue  Ligurian  waves.  The  graceful  and 
vivacious  actodroma,  and  the  trustful  sander- 
ling,  ahghted  here  in  simple  good  faith  to 
escape  the  death  grip  of  the  Arctic  ice.  The 
cheery  godwits  settled  upon  sea  or  sand,  and 
looked  like  clouds  of  silvery  smoke  touched 
by  red  rays  of  flame.  The  shore  was 
peopled  with  the  feathered  exiles  of  the 
north,  whilst,  inland,  the  common  buzzards 
arrived  with  the  first  gold  of  autumn  to  wage 


302  /iV  MAREMMA. 

war  on  rats  and  snakes  in  lionest  open 
combat ;  the  superb  merganser  spread  his 
bright  plumage  to  the  sun  and  surf  of  this 
unfamihar  shore  ;  and  the  sea-mew  less  con- 
fidently trusted  himself  to  the  south-west 
sands,  where  the  aloe,  and  the  hesperis,  and 
many  an  unknown  thing  growing  there, 
startled  him  as  he  made  for  the  inland 
pools  and  streams.  The  laughing-mew  and 
the  stream-swallow  sought  the  shelter  of  the 
rushes  and  the  reeds,  and  most  of  the  family 
of  the  gulls  were  to  be  seen  upon  the  wing 
above  the  shallows  where  sea  and  river 
blended.  More  rarely,  and  alone,  might  per- 
chance be  seen  the  northern  oyster-catcher 
(misnamed)  hunting  his  worms  and  tiny  fish 
in  the  shallows  of  the  shore,  meeting  per- 
chance the  merry  turnstone  bent  on  the 
same  quest,  but  never  wetting  his  slender 
feet  more  than  by  contact  with  wet  pebbles 
he  was  compelled  to  do.  Whilst,  by  the 
side  of  the  polar  piscatricides,  with  their 
plumage  of  snow-white  or  grey,  there  were 
along  the  line  of  the  breaking  waves,  and 
oftener  beside  the  shallows  of  the  swamps, 
slender  and  lofty  shapes  of  radiant  rose 
colour,  bending  their  slim  long  necks,  lithe 
as  wands  of  willow,  or  standing  motionless 


IN  MAREMMA.  SOS 


and  dreaming  in  the  wintry  sunsliine  on  the 
sands  ;  they  were  the  flamingoes. 

Some  of  them  live  all  the  year  round 
here,  as  in  Sicily  or  Sardinia,  but  these  are 
not  numerous  ;  in  large  numbers  they  only 
arrive  in  the  cold  weather,  to  depart  on  tlie 
wings  of  the  first  March  wind. 

Though  they  are  so  shy  of  human  eyes, 
she  had  seen  them  ever  since  she  had  been 
old  enough  to  come  here,  and  she  had 
always  fancied  that  they  were  half  flower 
half  bird ;  no  heart  of  a  June  rose  or 
cluster  of  rose-laurel  blossoms  has  ever  more 
lovely  crimsons,  more  delicate  flush  of 
colour,  than  the  pA6J??2zc6>^^^rw5  roseus  of 
Egypt  and  of  Asia.  Flying,  the  flamingoes 
are  like  a  sunset  cloud  ;  walking,  they  are 
like  slender  spirals  of  flame  traversing  the 
curling  foam.  When  one  looks  on  them 
across  black  lines  of  storm-blown  reeds  on 
a  November  morning  in  the  marshes,  as 
their  long  throats  twist  in  the  air  with  the 
flexile  motion  of  the  snake,  the  grace  of  a 
lily  blown  by  wind,  one  thinks  of  Thebes,  of 
Babylon,  of  the  gorgeous  Persia  of  Xerxes, 
of  the  lascivious  Egypt  of  the  Ptolemies. 

The  world  has  grown  grey  and  joyless  in 
the  twilight  of  age  and  fatigue,  but  these 


304  IN  MAREMMA. 


birds  keep  the  colour  of  its  morning.  Eos 
has  kissed  them. 

Farther  inland  yet,  the  jays  came,  sad- 
dened and  stupid  as  all  these  little  travellers 
are  when  they  first  arrive  in  a  strange 
country,  missing  their  dark  pine  forests  of 
Scandinavia,  of  Lithuania,  of  Thuringia. 
With  them  there  came  the  redwings,  the 
redstarts,  the  redbreasts  from  the  mountains, 
and  from  further  afield,  the  English  and 
French  robin,  dearest,  cheeriest,  brightest, 
kindest  of  little  birds,  and  even  the  robin 
was  sorrowful  and  timid  at  the  first,  though, 
soon  plucking  up  his  gallant  little  spirit,  he 
sang  upon  a  myrtle  spray  as  gaily  as  on 
his  native  hawthorn  branch  or  apple  bough 
in  Westmoreland  or  Calvados. 

All  these  and  many  more  she  watched 
as  they  came,  singly,  or  in  bands,  according 
to  their  habits,  upon  the  chilly  wind  that 
blew  from  their  native  north  countries. 

In  the  moorland  ponds  and  the  marsh 
rivulets  there  were  the  persecuted  coots  with 
Jier  all  the  year  round,  the  water-hens,  too,  in 
their  demure  garb  of  olive-brown  and  grey, 
and  their  brilliant  relative  the  beautiful 
porphyrion,  showing  the  sappliires  and  the 
rubies  of  his  feather^i  in  all  seasons,  amidst 


IN  MAltEMMA.  306 


the  white  vapours  of  a  wintry  dawn  as  amidst 
the  gold  of  the  pond-marigolds  in  mid- 
summer ;  and  over  all  the  land,  all  seasons 
through,  the  red-legged  partridges  ran  under 
the  cistus  and  rosemary  tliey  best  love,  and 
the  cushats,  though  their  voices  w^ere  mute, 
stayed  at  home  and  braved  the  autumn 
rains  and  winter  sea-fogs  that  stretched  to 
the  mountain's  foot. 

All  these  innocent  and  most  lovely  crea- 
tures had  cruel  foes  ;  cruellest  foe  of  all 
the  pitiless  snarer  or  S2:)ortsman  who  had  no 
better  aim  in  his  own  miserable  life  than  to 
slaughter  these  lives  that  were  so  much 
lovelier  than  his  own. 

But  the  moors  are  vast,  and  vast  the 
meadows  virgin  of  the  scythe,  and  vast  the 
labyrinths  of  forests  and  of  undergrowth 
stretching  at  the  mountain's  foot.  There 
was  many  a  lagoon,  where  never  other 
voices  than  the  birds'  were  heard ;  there 
was  many  a  league  of  woodland,  where  the 
thorns  of  the  firebush  and  the  sloe  and  the 
tangle  of  matted  vegetation  made  impene- 
trable barriers  to  the  greed  of  trappers. 

When  the  boats  came  at  night  with  the 
lanterns  to  daze  and  bewilder  the  roosting 
wild  ducks,  and    the  cowardly  showers  of 

VOL.  I.  X 


306  IN  MAREMMA. 

sliot  fell  like  hail  on  the  miresistmg  myriads, 
Musa  could  do  nothing ;  she  could  only 
listen  with  throbbing  heart  and  clenching 
hands,  and  laugh  aloud  in  derision  to  think 
that  men  called  the  hill-fox  a  robber  and  the 
falcon  bird  of  prey.  But  when  she  found 
the  nets  stretched  across  the  pools,  and  the 
paratoio  set  on  the  turf,  and  the  setters  of 
these  had  gone  away  for  the  night,  fearing 
the  deadly  vapours  of  the  soil,  then  she, 
seeing  these  fell  things  at  twihght,  and  not 
being  afraid,  would  wait  and  go  without 
sleep,  and  when  the  night  was  fully  down, 
and  the  invaders  of  the  birds'  kingdom  had 
rrone  to  some  distant  knot  of  houses  on  the 
hillside  or  the  shore,  or  to  some  shepherd's 
hut,  she  would  work  her  hardest  at  the 
snares,  pulling  up  the  stakes  from  the  ground, 
dragging  the  huge  nets  out  of  the  water, 
hacking  down  with  her  hatchet  the  poles, 
and  destroying  all  she  could  destroy  of  those 
treacherous  engines. 

If  the  men  had  ever  suspected  her,  if  they 
had  ever  returned  before  dawn  and  come 
upon  her  at  her  work  of  demohtion,  they 
would  have  shot  her  in  all  probability,  as 
they  would  have  shot  the  poor  birds,  and 
with  no  more  scruple  or  remorse  after  it. 


IN  MAREMMA.  307 


She  knew  tliat  very  well ;  but  her  love  of 
the  soft  wild  things  of  lagoon  and  woodland 
was  stronger  than  self-love,  and  the  bold 
blood  that  filled  her  veins  was  warm  with 
pleasure  as  she  strained  at  the  wood  or  the 
cordage  of  the  great  traps  closing  in  the 
mouths  of  streams,  or  drawn  round  the 
sleeping  places  of  the  unconscious  palmipedes. 

It  was  not  often  that  she  had  the  chance 
of  saving  her  feathered  friends,  for  not  very 
often  did  the  snarers  leave  their  prey,  but 
wdienever  the  power  came  in  her  way  she 
made  use  of  it,  and  whenever  she  saw  ill- 
looking  fellow^s,  strangers  or  natives,  coming 
in  upon  the  territory  wdiich  she  regarded  as 
the  birds'  and  beasts'  and  hers  alone,  she 
followed  them  unseen,  creeping  under  the 
heather  of  the  uplands,  and  the  cane-brakes 
of  the  swamps,  to  ^vatch  their  choice  of 
place,  and  foil  their  eflbrts  if  she  could. 

To  a  snarer  of  birds  she  would  have  had 
no  more  mercy  than  he  would  have  had  to 
her,  if  he  had  known  what  she  was  about ; 
and  she  had  almost  as  much  scorn  for  the 
so-called  sportsmen,  hiding  amongst  the 
reeds  to  take  the  bright  porphyrion  unawares, 
or  steering  tlieir  boat  through  water  strewn 
with  a  thousand  dead  and  dying  coots. 

X  -2 


308  IN  MAREMMA. 


Her  watching  of  the  sea  and  land  birds, 
and  her  care  over  them,  made  the  absorbing 
interest  of  her  lonely  life.  Her  wants  were 
so  few^  that  they  were  soon  provided  for,  and 
almost  all  the  day  long  she  could  ])ass  in  the 
open  air ;  like  Borrow,  she  did  not  fear 
'  natm^e's  clean  bath,  the  kindly  rahi.'  When 
she  went  home  dripping  with  w^ater,  she 
changed  her  clothes,  lighted  a  wood  fire,  and 
was  none  the  worse.  Leone  shook  himself, 
and  slept  after  the  rain,  and  so  did  she. 

In  that  free  life  she  grew  still  taller  and 
still  stronger,  slender  and  supple,  and  fit 
model  for  a  young  Artemis,  had  any  sculptor 
been  there  to  copy  the  fine  and  graceful 
lines  of  her  limbs  in  the  modelHng  clay  that 
comes  from  Tiber. 

She,  like  the  flittermouse,  passed  the 
winter  there  as  tranquil  as  though  beside 
Joconda's  hearth  ;  nay,  more  tranquil,  for  in 
her  old  home  the  constraint  of  severe  habits, 
the  enforced  household  labours,  and  the 
squalor  and  the  sickness  of  the  people  round 
had  been  irksome  and  painful  to  her.  Here 
she  was  sole  possessor  of  her  painted  cham- 
bers, and  without  had  the  wide  moors  and 
the  blue  sea  to  roam  over  as  she  would. 

Even  the  sea  was  kind  to  her  ;  for  one 


IK  MAItEMMA.  309 


night,  when  there  was  a  great  storm  and  she 
sat  beside  her  fire  in  the  warrior's  sepulchre, 
Leone  howling  by  the  kennel  tomb  where 
the  Etruscan  dog's  aslies  lay,  there  was  a 
barque  wrecked  a  mile  or  so  down  the 
coast ;  and  when  the  weather  cleared  on  the 
Ihird  da}^ — for  the  white  squalls  of  violent 
wind  and  rain  upon  these  waters  usually  last 
three  days  — she  went  down  to  the  beach 
to  see  the  sea,  tliat  was  sobbing  still  like 
a  child  after  vain  passion,  and,  washed  up 
upon  the  driftwood  and  the  glass-wrack  of 
the  rocks,  she  found  a  little  boat  bruised, 
but  still  serviceable  ;  doubtless  belonging  to 
the  lost  brig  that  had  foundered  with  all 
hands  off  the  dark  grim  peaks  of  Monte 
Argentaro. 

It  was  flotsam  and  jetsam,  and  she  took 
it  as  a  sea-gift. 

It  was  light  and  shapely,  and  its  two 
oars  were  in  it.  She  dumbly  thanked  God 
for  it ;  having  a  real  boat,  for  wjiat  she 
had  made  for  herself  was  but  an  awkward 
and  unseaworthy  tub,  she  felt  as  though 
Avings  had  grown  upon  her  shoulders.  The 
sea  seemed  to  be  all  her  own,  as  it  had 
seemed  to  the  Tyrrhene  pirates  three  thousand 
years  before  to  be  theirs  and  none  others. 


310  lA^  MAREMMA. 


She  was  as  thankful  as  a  dog ;  she 
dragged  her  treasure  up  over  the  rocks  out 
of  the  wet  sand  in  which  it  was  bedded  bows 
downward,  and  hid  it  in  a  little  aperture  she 
knew  of  in  the  cliffs  within  a  few  yards  of 
the  water. 

With  this  boat  for  her  use  when  she 
would,  she  felt  strong  and  free  as  any 
osprey.  It  was  another  means  of  livelihood 
also  ;  she  could  make  a  net,  and  catch  a  fish, 
as  well  as  any  man  of  the  sea  hamlets  ;  in 
the  hill-villages  they  never  tasted  fish,  their 
few  folk  were  too  far  off  and  too  lazy  by  far 
to  dragr  their  limbs  a  dozen  miles  down  to 
the  beach  at  any  time,  and  the  shore  folk 
were  too  indolent  and  too  feeble  to  go  to 
them.  But  she,  who  was  neither  idle  nor 
weak,  determined  to  carry  fish  to  the  hovels 
of  the  plains  and  hills  if  she  were  ever 
pressed  for  hunger,  and  get  their  bread  and 
dead  goat's  flesh  in  return.  So  she  said  to 
herself  as  she  hauled  up  the  boat  over  the 
stones,  though  she  would  never  take  the  lives 
even  of  the  fish  if  she  could  help  it.  And  she 
felt  satisfied,  having  her  future  thus  provided 
for  ;  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  coukl  five 
thus  so  easily  all  her  days. 

With  the  winter,  she  clothed  herself  in  the 


IN  MAREMMA.  311 


warm,  thick,  woollen  clothes  made  of  lamb's 
wool  that  Jocouda  had  woven  for  lier  ;  and  at 
night,  wlien  rain,  like  the  rain  of  the  tropics, 
poured  on  the  sandstone  rock  that  made  her 
roof,  and  was  sweeping  in  sheets  of  water 
over  Maremma  from  mountain  to  sea,  she 
span  at  her  wheel,  as  Tanaquil  had  done 
before  her,  by  the  low  light  of  one  oil  wick 
burning  in  the  lofty  candelabra  whose  like 
liad  charmed  the  delicate  and  lofty  taste  of 
Sappho's  Hellas. 

Sometimes  a  snow-storm  woidd  sweep 
over  the  moors  and  the  sea  ;  sometimes  the 
broad  lagoon,  formed  where  the  marsh  waters 
joined  the  salt  pools  in  the  sand,  was  one 
mass  of  boiling,  wind-lashed,  turgid,  yellow 
frotli ;  sometimes  thunder  roiled  and  blue 
lightning  flamed  above  the  bare  peaks  and 
crags  of  the  easterly  mountains,  and  a  dark- 
ness that  could  be  felt  descended  at  noontide 
on  Maremma  as  on  the  land  of  tlie  plagues  ; 
sometimes,  rarest  of  all,  there  was  the  film  of 
frost  on  all  the  moors,  and  the  terns  and 
smews  had  to  tap  with  their  bills  at  a  sheet 
of  ice  on  their  tarns  and  streams,  and 
fancied  themselves  back  in  their  own  Green- 
land or  Siberia. 

But  rough  weather,    and   wet  weather, 


312  IX  MAREMMA. 

were  the  portion  rather  of  autumn  than  of 
winter,  and  for  the  most  part  the  sun  shone 
above  the  Arctic  birds  that  had  come  south- 
ward for  sheUer,  and  upon  the  child  of  Satur- 
nino  gathering  the  fallen  wood  off  the  moor, 
or  driving  her  little  boat  through  surf  and 
spray.  The  winter-time  was  short — shorter 
than  counted  by  the  solstice — for  by  the 
turn  of  the  new  year  the  corn  was  springing 
and  covering,  like  a  thin  green  cloud,  all  the 
vast  plains  to  the  north ;  and  on  the  yet 
vaster  grass  lands,  where  no  foot  of  a  plough- 
man or  hand  of  a  mower  was  ever  known, 
under  the  gauze  veil  of  the  rime  frost,  the 
bulbs  of  the  wild  crocus  and  the  wild  nar- 
cissus began  to  feel  their  trustful  way  upward 
through  the  earth  like  little  children  timid  in 
the  dark,  yet  confident  because  they  think 
that  God  is  near. 

Then,  in  those  still,  starlit  nights, 
cleared  by  the  magic  wand  of  the  frost  till 
all  the  lustrous  sky  seemed  alive  with 
throbbing  light,  Musa  would  leave  her 
hearth  and  lamp  and  go  up  into  the  air, 
and  stand  and  look  at  the  silent  procession 
of  those  distant  worlds  of  which  none  had 
ever  told  her  anything. 

She  had  no  conception  what  they  were. 


JN  MABEMMA,  313 


She  knew  that  fishermen  and  mariners 
steered  by  them  all  night  long,  and  that  was 
all  she  knew. 

The  gorgeons  constellation  of  Perseus 
hung  above  the  sea,  and  over  the  weird 
peaks  of  Elba  the  great  star  Aldebaran 
burned  ;  the  Golden  Plough  was  driven  on 
its  fiery  way  down  the  north-eastern  heavens  ; 
above  the  great  south  moors,  far  down  in 
the  purple  night,  where  Rome  was,  there 
flamed  Orion,  and  straight  above  her  head, 
in  the  zenith,  Auriga  shone,  holding  in  his 
hand  Zeta  and  Eta,  the  dreaded  storm- 
bringers  of  the  Greeks.  To  her  they  had 
neither  name  nor  message,  yet  she  would 
stand  and  gaze  at  them  for  hours.  Surely 
they  could  not  burn  there  only  that  ships 
might  steer  ? 

Her  only  idea  of  them  was  inspired  by 
the  songs  of  the  Maremmano  people,  which 
call  on  Hesj)era  to  help  their  loves  as  on 
a  living  spirit,  and  hymn  the  star  that  has 
an  angel  by  its  side,  a  young  angel — '  ?/n' 
angiolin  ' — attending  it  always  on  its  path 
through  tlie  shining  heavens ;  a  graceful 
fancy,  which  took  root  as  a  fact  in  her 
belief,  so  that  she  would  gravely  gaze  upward 
for  hours,  trying  to  see  the  winged  servitors 


314  IN  MAREMMA. 

of  tlie  constellations  ;  and  sometimes  she  grew 
angry  with  them,  thinking, '  are  there  so  many 
angels,  cannot  they  warn  the  tartane  off  the 
shoals?  cannot  they  stoop  and  let  a  light 
shine  on  the  sea  when  their  stars  are  covered 
and  the  boats  go  aground  in  the  dark  ? ' 

The  planets  and  the  stars  were  as  great  a 
perplexity  to  her  as  the  birds,  and  much 
less  consolation. 

Every  one  knows  (or  at  least  every  one 
who  takes  thought  of  these  things,  whicl], 
perhaps,  is  a  small  minority)  that  to  see 
birds  in  their  own  homes  is  difficult.  The 
nest  of  the  blackhead  is  made  so  like  in  hue 
to  the  thornbush  it  rests  on,  the  nest  of  the 
cisticola  is  woven  so  wisely  amongst  the 
rushes  of  the  waterside,  the  flight  is  so  swift, 
the  vigilance  is  so  great,  the  feathers  are  so 
often  so  like  the  brown  of  tlie  bark  or  the 
grey-green  of  the  sedges,  that  even  the 
quickest  eye  may  see  but  little  of  them,  and 
even  the  gold  of  the  oriole  and  the  blue  of 
the  magnificent  chough  may  escape  detection 
in  the  shadows  of  the  woods.  But  ^vitli 
tenderness  for  them  and  patience  they  may 
be  traced  in  their  daily  ways  and  wander- 
ings, and  few  lives  repay  attention  to  them 
so  delightfully  as  do  the  lives  of  the  birds. 


IN  ^fABEMMA.  315 

She  was  herself  so  much  a  native  of  the 
woods,  she  was  as  motionless  as  the  king- 
fisher himself  beside  a  stream,  she  was  as 
solitary  and  as  wary  of  men  as  the  wood- 
pecker, she  was  so  heedful  never  to  disturb 
a  nest,  or  startle  a  callow  brood ;  and  as  her 
recompense  she  grew  as  acquainted  and 
familiar  with  the  winged  tribes  as  was  ever 
Audubon  or  Naumann.  She  had  not  their 
knowledge,  indeed,  but  she  had  more  than 
their  love.  When  the  naturalist  fires  on  a 
sanderling  or  a  bunting,  he  may  be  a  man  of 
science  and  culture,  but  he  is  no  lover  of 
birds. 

Musa  knew  very  few  even  of  the  com- 
mon names  of  either  the  flowers  or  the 
birds  ;  of  their  names  in  men's  books  she 
knew  not  one,  but  rshe  knew  the  look  and 
the  season  of  every  blossom  that  blew,  and 
she  knew  the  haunts  and  the  habits  of  most 
of  the  singers,  and  the  divers,  and  the 
many  creatures  that  made  populous  the 
wastes  around  her,  and  at  night  could  tell 
by  the  manner  of  their  lliglit  whether  the 
barn-owl  or  tlie  Athene  Noctua  went  past 
her,  wliether  the  wild-duck  was  going 
through  the  shadows  or  the  niulit-lovin^^- 
plover. 


316  IN  MAREMMA. 

She  knew  the  northern  birds  went  away 
with  the  first  warm  wind  of  February  ;  she 
had  every  year  since  she  could  remember 
seen  the  gulls,  and  gannets,  and  storm-swal- 
lows, and  all  their  congeners,  take  their 
flight  due  north,  never  to  return  until 
winter  returned  too. 

She  missed  the  timid  and  yet  bold 
creatures  of  the  Pole,  after  which  the  people 
of  Santa  Tarsilla  had  named  her ;  and  she 
missed  the  little  red  birds  of  the  north  with 
their  tiny  sweet  song,  piping  when  the  full 
melody  of  the  nightingale  w^as  mute. 

But  whilst  the  sky  was  fidl  of  storm 
clouds  and  the  sea  of  froth  and  foam,  and  the 
snow  was  still  half-way  down  the  sides  of 
the  black  Argentaro  rocks,  and  wholly 
clothed  the  Apennines,  she  was  cheered  by 
the  glad  exuberant  chatter  of  the  dauntless 
starling. 

Then,  as  the  year  grew  a  little  older,  and 
the  blackthorn  of  the  brakes  grew  white 
with  blossom  before  the  leaf,  and  the  green 
silent  wolds  that  enwrapped  the  dead  cities 
and  the  dead  nations  were  rosy,  and  purple, 
and  lilac  with  the  springing  of  the  anemones  ; 
then,  though  the  little  robin  no  more  showed 
his   red  waistcoat  under   the  myrtle  scrub, 


/iV  MAREMMA.  8l^ 


in  the  stead  of  him  and  his  came  back  the 
truants,  the  birds  which,  by  the  law  laid 
down  by  naturalists,  could  claim  the  country 
as  a  home,  since  it  was  there  they  made 
their  nests. 

Why  some  went,  some  stayed,  was  a 
strange,  unending  perplexity  to  Musa,  and  a 
perplexity  indeed  it  is. 

Why  does  the  blue  thrush  stay  on  the 
same  spot  all  the  year  long  and  all  the  years 
he  lives  ?  and  why  does  his  brother  the 
stone  thrush  go  off  on  autumnal  equinoxials 
as  far  as  the  White  Nile?  WJiy  indeed? 
The  birds  can  laugh  at  science  ;  their 
secrets  none  shall  know. 

Musa  sorely  missed  her  friends  of  winter, 
but  the  budding  of  the  crocus  and  the 
daffodil  brought  her  many  others  in  their 
stead,  and  soon  she  grew  reconciled  to  the 
new  comers  and  knew  their  looks  and  haunts 
and  ways  as  well  as  those  of  their  prede- 
cessors. 

With  earliest  break  of  the  year  the  red 
buzzard  came,  so  much  more  cowardly  and 
cruel  than  his  cousin  the  python- slayer,  to 
watch  all  the  summer  long  warily  amidst 
the  water-stars,  and  the  pond  plaintain,  to 
seize  some   unwary  moorhen,  or   snatch   a 


318  IN  MAREMMA. 

coot  away  as  she  brought  the  rushes  together 
to  beojin  a  home. 

All  the  moist  ground  that  stretched  for 
leagues  on  leagues  southward,  ground  that 
trembled  with  water  as  human  eyes  will  do 
with  unshed  tears,  was  covered  with  little 
feathered  people  who  loved  the  marsh,  and 
pool,  and  found  health  and  nourishment 
where  men  found  death. 

There  the  sedge  thrush  hung  his  nest 
upon  a  bulrush,  lining  it  with  cobwebs  and 
with  shred  rosemary  as  softly  as  a  lady 
sleeps  on  down ;  there  the  bearded  titmouse 
w^ould  slumber  upon  a  reed,  covering  tenderly 
with  his  wing  the  female  he  loved  so  well ; 
there  the  pewits,  and  the  finches,  and  the 
chats,  and  the  cricket  singers,  and  the  grass- 
hopper warblers,  and  all  the  multitudes  of 
oscines,  fluttered  and  flirted,  and  darted  and 
dived,  and  made  the  lonely  wastes  mirthful 
and  peopled.  The  fisher-heron,  as  timid 
a  solitary  as  any  that  the  Thebaid  knew, 
walked  by  choice  rather  beside  the  brackish 
pools  where  fresh  and  salt  water  met,  or 
along  the  white  line  of  the  rippling  surf, 
eyes  downward  and  head  bent,  meditative, 
melancholy,  and  absorbed.  The  sheldrake 
shared  his   taste  for    those    saline  shallows 


ly  MAREMMA.  319 


where  the  salt  chib-marsh  and  tlie  pungent 
sea-rush  thrave,  which  liave  defied  and  made 
the  despah'  of  all  engineering  skill  from  the 
days  of  tlie  Etruscans  ;  and  Musa  grew  well 
acquainted  with  liini  on  the  soaked  sand 
where  the  many  streams  of  her  moorland 
trickled  together,  and  formed,  with  the  in- 
running  sea,  a  broad,  shining,  reedy  mere 
— the  breeding-place  of  many  a  noxious 
vapour,  but  tlie  delight  of  her  and  of  the 
birds. 

When  the  asphodel  w\as  all  golden  and 
white  over  tlie  green  deserts  of  Southern 
Maremma,  and  she  left  the  sea-sliore  for  the 
inland  charm  of  fresh-born  veiT^etation,  and 
the  undergrowth  was  like  snow  witli  the 
laurestinus  flowers,  and  the  thyme  and  the 
l)asil  began  to  be  dewy  and  fragrant  under- 
neath her  feet,  she  found  the  fieldfares  that 
had  come  from  Nubian  sands,  and  the  tiny  flj^- 
catcher  that  was  putting  on  his  ruby  coat  for 
spring-time  and  for  courting,  and  the  song- 
sparrow  busy  building  his  high  nest  in  some 
solitary  pine  and  lining  it  solidly  with  bark- 
fibre  or  with  fisli  scales,  and  the  bush- 
singer  hanging  his  upon  a  branch  of  thorn  or 
under  close  leaves  of  myrtle,  and  the  red- 
breasted  shrike  darting  on    butterflies  and 


320  I^  MAREMMA. 


locusts  as  the  falcons  on  the  herons,  and  the 
bee-eater  falling  through  the  bright  air  on  his 
prey,  and  the  green  woodpecker  drilling  a  cita- 
del for  himself  in  the  stem  of  a  dwarf  cork  tree 
and  the  hoopoes  patiently  following  the 
buffaloes'  slow  march,  and  the  blue  nut-thatch 
holdino^  his  seed  beneath  his  claw  as  a  i\o^ 
holds  a  bone  under  his  foot,  and  his  cousins 
the  sittce  of  the  rosy  tails  descending  tree 
trunks  head  foremost,  and  the  woodlark 
making  music,  from  a  tuft  of  rosemary  or 
broom,  clearer  and  sweeter  than  the  love- 
songs  of  any  lute  ;  and  with  these  countless 
others,  too  many  to  name  the  half  of,  and 
Philomel  herself  for  ever  pouring  her  heart 
out  in  rapture,  as  she  does  all  day  long  and 
all  night  long  from  the  first  Lenten  lily  to 
the  last  midsummer  rose. 

Altogether  they  made  such  a  jocund 
company  upon  these  unknown  and  silent 
wastes  that  it  was  the  saddest  pity  that 
Milton  and  Shakespeare  and  Shelley  could 
not  awake  and  come  and  hear.  Oftentimes  in 
such  a  place  one  longs  for  them,  and  wonders 
as  the  children  wonder  of  the  flowers  that 
die  with  summer — where  are  they  gone? 

She  had  the  heaven-born  faculty  of 
observation  of  the  poets,  and  she  had  that 


IX  MARE  MM  A.  321 


instinct  of  delight  in  natural  beauty  which 
made  Linnaeus  fall  on  his  knees  before  the 
English  gorse  and  thank  God  for  having 
made  so  beautiful  a  thing.  This  child  of 
the  foolish  and  sensual  Serapia  and  of  the 
murderer  Mastarna  was  a  poet  at  heart ; 
in  another  land,  and  under  other  circum- 
stances, the  world  might  have  heard  of  her 
and  have  hearkened  as  eagerly  to  her  as  the 
people  of  Santa  Tarsilla  had  listened  to  her 
singing.  Had  study  and  wise  companion- 
ship been  given  to  her  she  might  have  found 
utterance  for  all  the  thoughts  and  fancies, 
the  dreams  and  the  affections,  that  thronged 
on  her  amidst  the  woods  and  on  the  sea,  but 
left  her  dumb  and  moved  to  a  mute  joy, 
keen  almost  to  pain. 

In  a  freer  and  a  gladder  day  than  hers, 
in  time  of  Urbinan  or  Florentine  or  Venetian 
greatness,  slie  might  have  forced  her  own 
way  up  to  light  and  learning,  and  made  the 
heaven  of  some  great  soul,  and  been  crowned 
with  the  golden  laurel  on  the  Capitol. 

As  it  was,  her  sympathies  and  her 
imaginings  spent  themselves  in  solitary  song 
as  she  made  the  old  strings  of  the  lute  throb 
in  low  cadence  when  she  sat  solitary  by  her 
hearth    on   the   rock   floor   of    the   grave ; 

VOL.  I.  Y 


(J22  IN  M.UiJEMMA. 


and  out  of  doors  her  eyes  filled  and  her  hps 
laughed  when  she  wandered  through  the 
leafy  land  and  found  the  warbler's  nest  hung 
upon  the  reeds,  or  the  first  branching 
asphodel  in  flower.  She  could  not  have  told 
why  these  made  her  happy,  why  she  could 
watch  for  half  a  day  untired  the  little  wren 
building  where  the  gladwyn  blossomed  on 
the  water's  edge.  It  was  only  human  life 
that  hurt  her,  embittered  her,  and  filled  her 
with  hatred  of  it. 

As  she  walked  one  golden  noon  by  the 
Sasso  Scritto,  clothed  with  its  myrtle  and 
thyme  and  its  quaint  cacti  that  later  would 
bear  their  purple  heads  of  fruit,  the  shin- 
ing sea  beside  her,  and  above  her  the  bold 
arbutus-covered  heights,  with  the  little  bells 
of  the  sheep  sounding  on  their  sides,  she  saw 
a  large  fish,  radiant  as  a  gem,  with  eyes  like 
rubies.  Some  men  had  it ;  a  hook  was  in  its 
golden  gills,  and  they  had  tied  its  tail  to 
the  hook  so  that  it  could  not  stir,  and 
they  had  put  it  in  a  pail  of  water  that  it 
might  not  die  too  quickly,  die  ere  they 
could  sell  it.  A  little  further  on  she  saw 
a  large  green  and  gold  snake,  one  of  the 
most  harmless  of  all  earth's  creatures,  that 
only  asked  to  creep  into  the  sunshine,   to 


IN  MAREMMA.  323 


sleep  in  its  hole  in  the  rock,  to  live  out  its 
short,  innocent  life  under  the  honey  smell  of 
the  rosemary;  the  same  men  stoned  it  to 
death,  heaping  tlie  pebbles  and  broken  sand- 
stone on  it,  and  it  perished  slowly  in  long 
agony,  being  large  and  tenacious  of  life. 
Yet  a  little  further  on,  again,  she  saw  a  big 
square  trap  of  netting,  with  a  blinded 
chaffinch  as  decoy.  The  trap  was  full  of 
birds,  some  fifty  or  sixty  of  them,  all  kinds 
of  birds,  from  the  plain  brown  minstrel, 
beloved  of  the  poets,  to  the  merry  and 
amber-wdnged  oriole,  from  the  dark  grey  or 
russet- bodied  fly-catcher  and  whinchat  to 
the  glossy  and  handsome  jay,  cheated  and 
caught  as  he  was  going  back  to  the  north ; 
they  had  been  trapped  and  would  be  strung 
on  a  string  and  sold  for  a  copper  coin  the 
dozen  ;  and  of  many  of  them  the  wings  or 
the  legs  were  broken  and  tlie  eyes  were 
already  dim.  Tlie  men  who  had  taken 
them  were  seated  on  the  thy  my  turf,  grin- 
ning like  apes,  with  pipes  in  their  mouths 
and  a  flask  of  wine  between  their  knees. 

She  passed  on,  lielpless. 

She  thouglit  of  words  that  Joconda  had 
once  quoted  to  lier,  words  wliicli  said  that 
men  were  made  in  God's  likeness  ! 


S24  IN  MAREMMA. 


In  the  loneliness  and  meditation  of  her 
life  the  pity  of  her  nature  deepened,  and  her 
scorn  of  cowardice  grew  still  stronger.  She 
was  brave,  self-reliant,  and  tender  to  all 
those  creatures  whom  the  human  race, 
because  it  understands  not  their  language, 
chooses  to  call  dumb.  Of  the  human  beast 
she  had  not  fear,  but  a  great  mistrust. 

The  short  winter,  the  enchanting  spring- 
tide, came  and  went,  and  none  had  traced 
her  to  her  hiding-place  ;  the  solitudes  around 
had  kept  her  harmless  secret  as  they  kept 
the  mysteries  of  the  buried  multitudes.  The 
only  creature  she  ever  spoke  to  was  little 
ZefFerino,  and  he  did  not  tell  of  her  because 
he  loved  her  herb  soup,  her  pullet's  eggs, 
her  store  of  bilberries,  her  skill  at  finding 
edible  mushrooms ;  and  she  let  him  come 
and  nibble  when  he  would,  squatting  like  a 
little  faun  upon  the  floor  of  the  tomb,  and 
holding  some  platter  or  bowl  of  the  dead 
Etruscans  tiaht  in  his  brown  hands. 


END   OF   THE   FIRST   VOLUME. 


LONDON  :    PBINTBD    BY 

BP0TTI8W00DR    AND    CO.,    NEW-STBKET    SQUAEB 

AND    PABLIAMEXT    STBKET 


Febmary,  1882. 


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Garth.  By  Julian  Hawthorne. 
Golden  Heart.  By  Tom  Hood. 
TheHunchback  of  Notre  Dame. 

By  Victor  Hugo. 
Thomicroft's  Model.     By  Mrs. 

Alfred  Hunt. 

Fated  to  be  Free.      By  Jean 

Ingklow. 

Confi-dence.  By  Henry  James, 

Jun. 

Tae  Queen  of  Oonnaught.    By 

Harriett  Jay. 
The  Dark  Colleen.  By  H.  Jay. 
Number  Seventeen.  ByHENi^Y 

KlNGSLEY. 

Oakshott  Castle.  H.Kingsley. 
Patricia  Kemball.    By  E.  Lynn 

Linton. 

Learn  Dundas.  E.LynnLinton. 
The  World  Well  Lest.     By  E. 

Lynn  Linton. 
Under  which  Lord  ?      By  E. 

Lynn  Linton. 

The    Waterdale    Neighbours. 

By  Justin  McCarthy. 
Dear  LadyDisdain.  By  the  same. 
My   Enemy's    Daughter,      By 

Justin  McCarthy. 

A  Fair  Saxon.  J .  McCarthy. 
Linley  Rochford.  McCarthy. 
Miss  Misanthrope.  McCarthy. 
Donna  Quixote.  J.  McCarthy. 
The  Evil  Eye.    By  Katharine 

S.  Macquoid. 

Lost  Rose.  K.  S.  Macquoid. 
Open!  Sesame  1    By  Florence 

Marryat. 

Harvest    of   Wild   Oats.      By 
Florence  Marryat. 

A  Little  Stepson.  F.  Marryat. 
Fighting  the  Air.  F.  Marryat. 
Touch    and    Go.        By   Jean 

MlDDLEMASS. 

Mr.  Dorillion.  J.  Middlemass. 
Whiteladies.  ByMrs.OLiPHANT. 
Held  in  Bondage.  By  Ouida. 
Strathmore.  By  Ouida. 
Chandos.  By  Ouida. 
Under  Two  Flags.  By  Ouida. 
Idalia.    By  Ouida. 


Cecil  Castlemaine.   By  Ouida. 
Tricotrin.    By  Ouida. 
Puck.    By  Ouida. 
Folle  Farine.    By  Ouida. 
A  Dog  of  Flanders.  By  Ouida. 
Pascarel.    By  Ouida. 
Two  Little  Wooden  Shoes.  By 
Signa.     By  Ouida.  [Ouida. 

In  a  Winter  City.    By  Ouida. 
Ariadne.    By  Ouida. 
Friendship.     By  Ouida. 
Moths.    By  Ouida. 
Lost  Sir  Massingberd.  J.  Payn, 
A  Perfect  Treasure.     J.  Payn. 
Bentinck's  Tutor.   By  J.  Payn. 
Murphy's  Master.  By  J.  Payn. 
A  County  Family.    By  J.  Payn, 
At  Her  Mercy.    By  J.  Payn. 
AWoman'sVengeance.  J.  Payn. 
Cecil's  Tryst.    By  James  Payn. 
The  Clyffards  of  ClyfFe.  J.Payn. 
Family  Scapegrace.    J.  Payn. 
The  Foster  Brothers.  J.  Payn. 
Found  Dead.     By  James  Payn. 
Gwendoline'sHarvest.  J.Payn. 
Humorous  Stories.     J.  Payn. 
Like  Father,  Like  Son.  J.Payn. 
A  Marine  Residence.   J.  Payn. 
Married  Beneath  Him.  J.  Payn. 
Mirk  Abbey.    By  James  Payn. 
Not  Wooed,  but  Won.  J.  Payn. 
Two  Hundred  Pounds  Reward. 

By  James  Payn. 

Best  of  Husbands.  By  J.  Payn. 
Walter's  Word.     By  J.  Payn. 
Halves.    By  James  Payn. 
Fallen  Fortunes.    By  J.  Payn. 
What  He  Cost  Her.    J.  Payn. 
Less  Black  than  We're  Fainted . 

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By  Proxy.    By  James  Payn. 
Under  One  Roof.    By  J.  Payn. 
High  Spirits.    By  Jas.  Payn. 
Paul  Ferroll. 

Why  P. Ferroll  Killed  his  Wife. 
The  Mystery  of  Marie  Roget. 

By  Edgar  A.  Poh. 


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Her  Mother's  Darling.  By  Mrs. 

J.    H.    RiDDBLL. 

O-asllght    and  Daylight.       By 

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Bound  to  the  Wheel.   By  John 

Saunders. 

O-uy  Waterman.  J.  Saunders. 
One  Against  the  World.     By 

John  Saunders. 

The  Lion  in  the  Path.  By  John 

and  Katherink  Saunders. 

A  Match  in  the  Darik.    By  A. 

Skbtchley. 


Tales  for    the  Marines.      By 

Walter  Thornbury. 

The  Way  we  I*ive  Now.      By 

Anthony  Trollops. 

The  American  Senator.  Ditto. 
Diamond  Cut  Diamond.  Ditto. 
A   Pleasure   Trip  in   Europe. 

By  Mark  Twain. 

Tom  Saw/er.  ByMARK  Twain. 
An  Idle  Excursion.  M.Twain. 
Sabina.  By  Lady  Wood. 
Castaway,  By  Edmund  Yates. 
Forlorn  Hope.  Edmund  Yates. 
Land  at  Las  i.    Edmund  Yates. 


NE^V  TWO-SHILLING 
Pipistrello.     By  Ouida. 
The  Ten  Years'  Tenant.     By 

Besant  and  Rice. 
Jezebel's  Daughter.  ByWiLKiE 

Collins. 
Queen   Cophetua.      By   R.   E. 

Francillon. 

In  Pastures  Green.     By  Ciias. 

Gibbon. 
A  Confidential  Agent.    By  Jas. 
Payn. 


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H.wvthorne. 
With  a  Silken  Thread.     By  E. 
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Quaker  Cousins.       By   Agnes 

Macdonell, 

Written  in  Fire.     By  Florence 

M.\RRYAT. 

1   A  Life's  Atonemei.t.      By   P. 
Christie  Murray. 
Carlyon's  Year.     By  J.  Payn. 


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Lindsay's  Luck.     By  the  Author  of  "  That  Lass  o'  Lowrie's." 
Pretty  Polly  Pemberton.     By  Author  of  "  That  Lass  o'  Lowrie's." 
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A  Double  Bond.     By  Linda  Villari. 

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